


Day Begins to Dawn on Grantaire

by TheFullmidgetAlchemist



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Background Relationships, Eventual relationship, F/M, Happy, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Multi, Other, Slow Build, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but its there, i just wanted a happy fic, not enough for an explicit rating tho, probably slightly ooc, too happy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFullmidgetAlchemist/pseuds/TheFullmidgetAlchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire meets a weird bunch of people who are altogether way too optimistic, and resolves to find out if the glorious blonde leader actually has a normal side to his god-like exterior.</p>
<p> <br/>I was feeling the lack of just plain fluff and happiness so I wrote my own instead<br/>(basically, let's play a game of How Many Les Mis references and Other Varied Assorted References Can You Find)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Begins to Dawn on Grantaire

Grantaire can't remember that precise moment when his eyes first alighted on Enjolras's vibrant form. All he remembers is that he seemed to him like the sun. He seemed to glow, even in the darkest of places. His words, eloquent and firm, flowed endlessly out of him, alighting on the dissolute and filling them with a desire to fulfil the dreams he stitched together with a few choice words, to become at one with his ideas. One often felt a sense of rebellion upon hearing his fiery words, an urge to rise up against the injustices of the world. For Grantaire, whose life was constantly bombarded with such injustices, such words bounced off him, even as he lifted his head from the alcohol-driven stupor of misery he'd fallen into in the darkest corner of the pub. He watched dimly as a crowd of people rose around the shining figure in the middle, filled with a just anger, voicing their opinions, congratulating the incandescent man in their midst for his moving words. And, in his darkness, in his unwillingness to listen to such superficial idealism, he was transfixed, eyes staring, half-shut, at the brightness that poured forth from the man, his gaze unwavering, absorbing the light as if his very life depended on it. His mind, that rational, alcohol-befuddled, life-hardened machine, rejected the words offered by the man who would later be fitted with that name, Enjolras, but his heart, which still clung on to the hope which never refused to be dampened, grasped at the words. The battle between rationality and hope was what Grantaire blamed when he happened to see Enjolras again, and again. One day, after a particularly outrageous idea, he couldn't hold his tongue any more, and he stepped into the light.

And he begun to slowly break down Enjolras's arguments, the cynic in him rearing up at the face of an opponent, and he saw Enjolras's face for the first time, observed his clear blue eyes change as he digested the opposition, saw how his blonde hair traced curls across his face, the bulk of it pushed back into a messy ponytail from which the curls still managed to escape wildly, noticed how little sweaty curls clung to his skin, watched his eyebrows rise as he delivered his response with his usual smirk. He remembered that day, how he felt the weight of every eye settle on both of them, how it didn't matter, how strange it felt being in the light. He didn't look him in the eye at first, kept his eyes lowered just so, observing the smattering of freckles that converged on the bridge of his nose, and when he had finally looked, he saw the fire of challenge in them, and maybe, for the first time since he'd observed him, thought how those eyes would look like in a normal, everyday situation, not while fighting for the rights of all humans in the face of the gross injustices doled to them in their lives. Did this man not know how to break out this perfect, statuesque symbol of justice?

Of course, the answer which had followed was spectacular, but it only made Grantaire rebuke with more confidence this time. Other people began to join in, until he had managed to spark quite the argument. When everyone realised it was far later than usual, the party disbanded, and when Grantaire parted ways, with a new mobile number in his phone and a smarting pain in his shoulder from the smack he'd received from approximately half the people there, he realised he wasn't feeling that usual, crippling disappointment that crushed him daily. He was also sober, and felt strangely alive. Arguing with Enjolras had produced a more intoxicating effect than alcohol, and unlike alcohol, it cleared his mind and left him at a high that lasted for quite a long time. Grantaire shook his head to clear the strange feeling, and realised he was happy.

The next morning, he woke up to a text from an unknown number. He groaned, opened it, and blinked. The little chat bubble was so full of text that he had to scroll down to reach the end. It turned out that Enjolras hadn't done much sleeping, and had instead written an essay on why precisely Grantaire should 'get his head out of the trash can where it's stuck' and 'look into the world of brighter possibilities'. Although he supposed he should feel offended, Grantaire found himself grinning. Enjolras was definitely an odd fellow – to care enough to actually send such a detailed explanation to prove him wrong, and his obstinate refusal to believe that Grantaire was 'so damn pessimistic', and after just one encounter, one must be really dedicated to his cause. And from what Grantaire had learned, Enjolras was anything if not dedicated. He sent back a reply, short and to the point, and after a couple of minutes, he received yet another essay. He chuckled, alerting his dog that he was awake, causing a slight earthquake as the huge Great Dane jumped on top of his bed and possibly broke a couple of slats. The distraction put his mind off Enjolras, and when he checked his phone some hours later, he found 7 messages, of similar essay-length as the first, from Blondie. Ah, the force of justice was worried. The force of justice also wanted to know whether he would be enlightening them with his presence that night. He grinned. He wouldn't miss it for anything.

This meeting that Enjolras and his friends held every couple of days, friends which, moreover, soon became Grantaire's friends, was soon part of Grantaire's routine. He became accustomed to Enjolras's sigh and eye-roll when met with one of Grantaire's cocky remarks, even as a small smile would lift the corners of his lips at the challenge of an answer. It became a sort of game for him, and he found himself laughing more easily in the company of these people than he'd ever done in his life. The others held him in quite a high regard – apparently, not many people had managed to stir Enjolras up into such righteous rages, and they found him to be something of an anomaly.

“Must be your artistic charms,” mused Combeferre over a glass of wine one day. “You know, sparks conflicts with the scientific brain of Enj over there.”  
“It could be,” Courfeyrac chimed in wickedly, his grin boding no good, “that those brilliant green eyes of yours get him all hot under the collar.”

While Combeferre spat out his wine, Courfeyrac clapping him heartily on the back as he cackled, Grantaire smiled knowingly, and said, “My dear Courfeyrac, I do believe you're right. My eyes are after all, my greatest offence.”

The conversation deviated from there, Grantaire occasionally losing track of it as he was distracted by Enjolras's speech, or by the way he was gesturing with his hands to deliver his point. He had beautiful hands, and upon observation (because as an artist, he was _meant_ to observe, right?) he realised that his hands and arms where a vast sky against which were dotted entire constellations of freckles. Enjolras was a living breathing machine that fed Grantaire with constant inspirations. Before he allowed his mind to wander, he turned to Combeferre, who was gazing at Courfeyrac as the other talked animatedly on some random topic which surely didn't require the avid attention Combeferre was giving him, and waited till their attention was on him. The question which had been in his mind since that very first argument had never stopped circling around in his thoughts, and who would know the answer better than Enjolras's best friends?

“Tell me, does our dear friend Enjolras ever snap out of his role of Saviour of Human Rights and Fighter for Justice, and relax? Is he always this goddamn perfect? Does he ever join the ranks of us puny mortals?”

Combeferre gave him an unreadable sidelong glance, while Courfeyrac grinned, looking at Combeferre with an almost wistful look. “To answer your question, 'our dear friend Enjolras' does indeed become a human being every once in a while. You just have to be lucky enough to spot it.” He added cheerfully, “It's worth the wait.” He left it at that, and no amount of nagging could get him to expand on that point. Grantaire's mind was set. He'd just have to find them out for himself.

***

The first opportunity presented itself very suddenly one sunny Saturday morning. Grantaire and Bossuet were early, lounging round the back of the pub with a couple of beer bottles between them, going over the topics that were going to be discussed that day, with Grantaire vehemently disagreeing and Bossuet trying to make him see some sense. They both looked up when the door opened, and the gust of wind blew in Enjolras, his hair flying free from the bun it was loosely curled in. His eyebrows were joined together in thought, his lower lip jutting out slightly as he appeared to be completely lost in thought. Grantaire had, on reflex, slouched, a habit he'd caught when he'd found out that it irritated Enjolras to no end (and as it was his job to irritate Enjolras as much as was humanly possible, which had been up to this day his greatest achievement, he did it quite a lot), but it had no effect on Enjolras. He didn't even notice the two friends huddled up in the back, and kept walking past them without even raising his head. Grantaire's eyes followed him avidly, hardly noticing Bossuet's eyes lingering on him with an odd expression, and realised something. Without conscious thought, his mouth twitched, then split open in a huge grin. Without tearing his eyes off the retreating back of the blonde, who was still lost in thought (probably thinking of _justice_ or some such noble cause), he nudged Bossuet, nodding at Enjolras. Both of them stared unwaveringly at Enjolras as the latter, his head still bowed, lips moving as he muttered something to himself, walked straight into the closed door which led to the inner area of the pub.

Needless to say, that snapped him out of his thoughts more effectively than anything.

Blinking madly and looking mortified, amidst the hooting guffaws of Bossuet and the hearty cackling from Grantaire, Enjolras backed up from the offensive door, assuring the bartender meekly that he was alright, that the bruise that was forming on his forehead did not hurt, and no, he did not need ice, he was perfectly fine. Grantaire had gone past the point of cackling and was silent-laughing, banging the palm of his hand against the wooden table like some kind of demented seal. Enjolras's neck was a dark, angry red, his ears tinted pink, a detail which Grantaire's artist eyes picked up, his mind matching up the shades to paint colours, noting how every move Enjolras made was worth painting, because he was quite the natural masterpiece. The artist in Grantaire found his hands itching to sketch the scene in front of him, to capture the look on Enjolras's face when he turned round to face them, a mixture of embarrassment, frustration and exasperation, with a little hint of something else, his face an open book for everyone to read. It was almost endearing, the way his lips were stuck in a betrayed pout, his eyes still bright from tears that had sprung up at the sudden, painful contact with the door. Grantaire was staring. He knew it, and Enjolras knew it. The red flow of blood from his neck and ears flooded his face, and he turned around, hastily fumbling for the doorknob and almost tripping on his way through the doorway.

Grantaire finally regained his breath, wiping away the tears of mirth as he clapped Bossuet on the back to stop him from choking himself to death. 

“That was quite something. Never thought I'd see Perfect Enjolras caught unaware like that.”

Bossuet laughed fondly. “Our Enj may give off an image of being serious, but he's a lovable fellow outside of – this,” he said, gesturing around him expansively. “He's a man of strong, unwavering values, kind but strict, but he's human too. He intimidates people at first, although that didn't seem to be so in your case, but he's a big idiot once you get to know him.”

Grantaire smiled, his eyes still fixed on the spot where Enjolras had disappeared. He'd heard a lot of Enjolras, and his unquenched thirst to know the man that everyone praised so highly intensified.

The talk on normality reminded Grantaire of his task. Finally tearing his eyes away from the door, he whipped out his iPhone, smiling at the argument its brand had struck with Enjolras, something about how a simple 'i' increased the value of a basic smartphone by hundreds. Opinions, opinions. He flicked through his apps, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he stared at the backlit screen, till he found the Memo app. He found an empty text box, and wrote in capital letters: “THINGS ENJOLRAS DOES”. Beneath it, he wrote, “distract himself with justice so much that he walks into immovable objects”. He nodded with satisfaction and saved the note, seeing Bossuet smirk from the corner of his eye and turn back to his unfinished beer. Grantaire returned his phone to his jeans pocket, rooted around his bag, and produced a tattered sketchbook. He unhooked a pencil from behind his ear, and answered the call of his hands as they traced wild, graceful lines across the creamy, smooth pages.

When he got back home that day, the ever-increasing collection of sketches which revolved around a certain blonde leader, with justice flaring in his eyes and his hair as messy as ever, had increased again. He sighed, running a hand, which was partially blackened by pencil graphite from his intense session of drawing and not paying attention to a single word Enjolras had spouted that meeting, through his hair, and looked at the blank canvas which was facing the wall of his living room, in the same position it had been six months ago when he abandoned his inspiration for his self-pity.

Within minutes, he was sitting in front of it, his hand a blur as he let himself be lost in the swirls of graphite and acrylic, not noticing the time passing. Morning found him lying lengthwise on the floor, hands and face dotted with paint splatters, a finished work catching the first rays of sun as they soared in through the window. He woke up as the heat of the sun alighted on his face, eyes immediately falling on his art. He smiled, covering his face with a purple-orange hand as the product of all those long hours filled him with an unexpected sense of pride. Enjolras looked sideways out of the canvas, his hair curling at the nape of his neck, his eyes shining, the long lashes sweeping upwards. His lips, red and full, were parted, caught in a rare moment where the force of judicious righteousness wasn't creasing his brow, where he looked almost young. But the main spotlight were the freckles. Grantaire had connected some of them into constellations, thinking about how his first impression of Enjolras was that of a bright light. Grantaire stood up, wincing at the stiffness of his limbs, and traced them gently with his index finger. That's what Enjolras was. A star, who made people gravitate towards him by his mesmerising light, leading them on like the star which had led three wise men to hope, in a far off place in a far off time.

Grantaire shook his head, and for the first time noticed the paint splattered across every inch of skin on his hands.

***

A few weeks lapsed after that event. Enjolras had suffered through a lot of snide remarks which involved faces smashing into doors. Grantaire and Bossuet had not be kind enough to let the matter rest, and had gleefully filled the rest of their friends in with the detail. Enjolras had glared at them for two days straight after the incident, but that didn't particularly daunt Grantaire. Although it had slowly faded as the days rolled away, Grantaire occasionally nudged Enjolras, and when he caught his attention, he would warn him with a straight face that he should look out for doors as “the sneaky bastards like hitting people in the face.” Enjolras would bash him upside the head as Grantaire's face would split into a crooked grin, but when Enjolras would turn away, Grantaire would spot a small smile that betrayed the otherwise annoyed expression.

At around the seventh week from that particular event, Enjolras became visibly more tense. Grantaire eventually found out that it was because of some important speech he had to give in front of quite a number of people. Enjolras's little group and their ideas had spread far more than just little meet-ups in bars in forgotten little towns. The influential young leader had sparked several interesting arguments, and whilst many people venerated him, to say the least, he'd earned himself quite a few enemies. Now, Grantaire wasn't much one to talk, seeing as his first introduction to Enjolras was an argument which he'd sparked from his own aversion to Enjolras's high idealism, but he held a deep resentment for those who had shown such a harsh opposition to Enjolras. He realised he was being quite hypocritical, but he couldn't help it. He'd always viewed his constant arguments as constructive criticism, helping Enjolras solidify his arguments and close the holes in his theories. The letters and emails they were receiving now were too offensive to be just that.

He must have shown his resentment towards them, because he'd just been told to 'tone down the murderous thoughts because the bad vibes were filling the room and it has become hard to breathe' countless times by Courfeyrac, who was sitting next to him. Enjolras, lounging on the sofa opposite them in Combeferre's living room, where they'd gathered to discuss the upcoming meeting, shot him a worried look. Grantaire blinked a few times, trying to douse the flames that were apparently raising the room's temperature by a few degrees. He got up from his seat, stretching his arms above his head, shirt riding up his torso. Enjolras was staring fixedly at the ceiling, a faint blush visible at the very tips of his ears. His beautiful face was contorted into a frown. Clearly, the meeting was weighing more heavily on his brain then he was letting on. Grantaire excused himself and left the room, and chose to let out his anger by walking laps round Combeferre's block of apartments.

He despised the fact that he felt helpless, but what really puzzled him was the intensity of the emotions he felt. He'd only know these people, really known them, not just by gazing at them in a half-drunken stupor from the back of a dimly-lit bar, for a few months. But their struggles had suddenly and irrevocably became _his_ struggles, and he found himself wanting to cheer them up, to get them to show everyone who they truly were, and how powerful their words were, even though he still held a firm believe that they were a hint too idealistic. He ended up sitting on the porch of Ferre's front door, staring up at the stars, even as the first drops of rain started pattering down in the street.

A few minutes had elapsed; he wondered if his absence had been noted.

The door against which he was leaning opened suddenly, and he fell backwards, coming to a halt when his back hit a pair of legs. He looked up, and Enjolras looked back at him, his wide, blue eyes creasing with confusion when Grantaire let out a small laugh. He was aware that rainwater was running tracks down his face, but he was also vaguely aware that the rain hadn't been raining that hard.

“Where were you?”

Grantaire leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his knees and propping his head on his interlocked hands. “My death glares were creating a danger hazard in the room, so I let them out on innocent strangers in the streets.”

Grantaire felt Enjolras shift, and then felt the air be displaced by the sudden movement Enjolras had made. He looked up to see two gangly legs bending, and then Enjolras was sitting next to him.

“It's raining.”

“Oh wow, who'd have guessed? You're so great at deduction, Enj. You should consider a career as Sherlock Holmes.”

“No need to be so deadpan, R.”

“R? How did yo-”

“Yes. That's what you signed the doodle you gave to Courf, for the poster idea, right?”

“Oh yeah, 'course. 'Grantaire' is such a classy name.”

Enjolras mumbled something, which Grantaire didn't quite hear. Upon prompting him to 'speak clearer Jesus Christ', he said, in a slightly higher voice, “I don't mind it. On the other hand, I think 'Enjolras' is too lofty and grand-sounding.”

Grantaire bumped his shoulder against Enjolras's, and said smilingly, “It suits you. A grand name for a grand superhero.”

Enjolras gave him a wry smile, and sighed. Finally, he confessed, “I'm terrified. I'm gonna screw it up tomorrow.”

“No you're not. How can you say that? You've had so much experience with me! I'm quite an intimidating, stubborn opponent, aren't I?”

Enjolras gave a small chuckle, his eyes staring at the rain puddle which was slowly growing in size as the intensity of the rain increased. His eyes were hooded, his lashes sweeping outwards. The light from the almost-full moon landed on a raindrop which was caught in them, and Grantaire was reminded yet again of how utterly stunning Enjolras was. Even in the most unassuming positions, in the most ordinary scenarios, without any awareness of it, Enjolras was always able to stun Grantaire.

Grantaire shook his head violently, like a dog shaking out water droplets, trying to get water out of his dark brown curls, going cross-eyes as he glared at a particularly unruly strand of hair that curled down right between his eyes. He felt Enjolras's sad gaze linger on him, and punched him on the shoulder. “You're gonna... you're gonna... totally win this thing!” he said, realising belatedly that he wasn't particularly skilled in encouragement. However, it seemed to spark something in Enjolras. It might've been that Grantaire's encouragement was so unexpected that even the slight effort was enough to boost Enjolras's confidence by just that much to help him regain his courage.

When Grantaire met his eyes again, he was pleased to see that the fire that had become as tame as a puppy had risen again, rekindling with an even more vibrant flame. The smile that made the freckles on his cheeks cluster together was genuine. “Hell yeah I am. Though,” he added, placing a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and grinning wickedly, “you might wanna polish up those encouragement skills.”

The moonlight caught the slight chip on one of his front teeth, giving Enjolras's face a kind of heightened sense of reality. It made him seem less Greek God and more _homo sapiens_ material.

Grantaire finally digested the last sentence, and frowned, his mouth going against his volition and curling up in a lazy smile. He held back on his answer, and decided instead on pointing out that maybe they should head inside as they were inevitably getting soaked. Enjolras, upon realising this, quickly agreed.

The next day, the dreaded meeting day, dawned unnecessarily bright. Grantaire, who'd somehow managed to make it home last night, was suddenly struck by an unusual, jittery feeling. It was nerves.

He frowned a little at this realisation. He wasn't even directly involved in the entire thing, and his only contributions were the small doodle he'd drawn for the poster, and his rigorous training with Enjolras which involved Grantaire putting down everything Enj said and expecting a well-constructed argument as to why he was such a 'dimwit'.

He rummaged in his wardrobe for a decent outfit and discovered, beneath a pile of (clean) socks, a neatly folded green shirt. He pulled it on, looking at the time and realising he was probably going to be late. He pulled on his black (extremely tight) trousers while he was brushing his teeth, the toothbrush perched precariously in between his teeth as he hopped on one foot, then on the other. He managed to finish the two tasks without any fatal injuries, a miracle by all standards. He glared at his hair in the mirror, and ran some kind of anti-frizz cream through it in the vain hope that it would stay put. He frowned a bit more as he looked himself up and down, and decided to throw in a black scarf to break the green expanse of shirt, and to make the outfit a bit more casual. He shrugged. Not everyone could be born perfect like Enjolras, after all.

He patted his sleeping dog on the head, which ended up delaying him for a further five minutes as the dog wanted cuddling and Grantaire's heart was a hint too weak when it came to his dog, or to any animal in general.

He arrived with a minute to spare, to find Enjolras even more wound up than the night before.

Grave times call for grave measures. Within minutes, Enjolras's serious, sober face had completely been replaced by barely suppressed laughter as Grantaire proved to him that he was actually meant to be a stand-up comedian. Grantaire couldn't help but genuinely grin at Enjolras's failure of keeping a straight face, even after the initial declaration of 'I'm too highly strung to actually laugh right now'. He looked at Grantaire with tears in his eyes, his fingers swooping to his face and herding stray curls back behind his ear. His hair was tied back in an unusually neat ponytail, Enjolras having clearly made a bit of an extra effort. Grantaire was satisfied to note that most of the tension that had stiffened his shoulders and tightened his mouth had leaked out along with the snorts that had burst out of Enjolras in the sheer effort not to burst out laughing and making a fool of himself in front of the small audience that had been slowly gathering.

Grantaire clapped Enjolras's back, almost sending him flying into the room. They were in the tiny room behind the bar counter, where Grantaire had found Enjolras when he'd arrived. They'd been accompanied by most of their friends, most of whom had drifted away to take their seats. Combeferre, the last one there, walked past them and patted Enjolras's shoulder reassuringly. “You have this, mate.”

Enjolras nodded, eyes narrowing in anticipation of the upcoming event, and glanced at Combeferre's retreating form. Grantaire gave him a little push. “Go get 'em,” he added helpfully to Combeferre's line, his eyes dancing with humour. “I'll be here – I literally have your back.”

Enjolras smiled, and said softly, “Thanks, R. For – for everything.”

Grantaire snorted. “Don't thank me just yet. Thank me after they're all reeling on the floor from the way you're gonna demolish their arguments.”

Enjolras nodded, and with a final smile, he walked out, his chin held high.

Grantaire surreptitiously took out his phone and added another point to his list – 'can't keep a straight face in serious situations even though he states expansively that he can and laughs at my shit jokes'

That day, Enjolras's reputation was confirmed once more, and the sceptics and critics went out of the meeting looking slightly dazed. The party that followed after was well-deserved, and Enjolras's wide grin made the whole gruelling two hours worth of speech worth it.

Hours later, when Grantaire was back home, curled up in bed with his giant dog, he received a text message. Grunting, he reached over his mountainous dog (with difficulty) and retrieved his phone. It was 'enjolrARSE'. Unusually for Enjolras, it was a short text.

_Thank you, R. For everything, but especially your presence. Means a lot._

Grantaire wasn't sure what the twisty feeling in his gut meant, but his mouth curled into a terribly fond smile, and when he finally fell asleep a few minutes later, he felt oddly satisfied.

***  
Summer seemed to arrive quickly that year. Spring was a short affair, which Grantaire was incredibly grateful for. He and pollen didn't have the best of relationships.

Summer meant that Grantaire didn't need to worry about university for a moment. He'd made the decision to drop out of his current course, which was something on computing which he despised, and take on art. It had been his original plan to take art, but due to circumstances and to a depressing lack of motivation and creativity, he'd had decided against it. But this year, along with the introduction to his new group of friends, there came a reawakening of artistic ability. And so he was following his heart, for once.

Grantaire wasn't much of an outdoors person. This was probably due to his years of solitude, mostly to protect himself from others. His inferiority complex certainly didn't help there. But this summer, he found himself going out quite a worrying amount of times. This he blamed partly on Enjolras, who nagged and persisted, and partly on his alarmingly low resistance when it came to Enjolras. He needed to fix that, else he'll be coerced into almost anything in the near future. Though, he mused, that wouldn't be all too bad...

However, on the plus side, all these outings with his new family gave him the opportunity he needed to see them all in a more natural element.

It was around this time that Grantaire recognised the jittery, twisty feeling that constantly churned in his gut whenever he was around their radiant leader.

One of the brightest, most vibrant memories that he held very dear to his heart was the day when they'd gone hiking. It was a very beautiful day, but it was exceedingly hot. The faint breeze that had accompanied them was a relief, but didn't quite conquer the effect of the sun. This didn't daunt the friends one bit. They set off early in the morning, and by mid-day they'd taken seven and a half breaks (the half break was basically Grantaire throwing himself on a patch of grass and refusing to get up till Enjolras threatened to step on his face). At mid-day, not even Enjolras could deny that a break was in order.

They settled in a beautiful area, which was partly sheltered by a cluster of trees whose branches were so closely knit together that they created a natural canopy. It was where Grantaire found himself now, having eaten his weight in sandwiches, and sketching the various shenanigans that his friends were up to. His attention was stolen by Enjolras (oh, that was unusual) when the latter decided to climb a tree. He was quite a good climber, and he had this adorable pleased expression on his face when he reached the top. This quickly turned into one of puzzlement as he contemplated on the safest route to firmer ground, and this too eventually deteriorated into one bordering on panic. Grantaire considered going over to help him, but thought against it. This would serve as practice for Enjolras to get his mind working on solving problems quickly and efficiently. After all, all Grantaire wanted was to improve Enjolras's argumentative skills. He was certainly not hoping he would get to see another Enjolras-fail. Not at all.

In fact, it was very soon after that that Enjolras abandoned rational thought and went for the easiest (and probably most painful) route – gravity.

When Grantaire stopped laughing (with some difficulty), he helped Enjolras out of the leafy debris that he'd dislodged in his way down. He wasn't injured, as the branches sticking out of the trunk had cushioned his fall somewhat. But he was sporting some interesting bruises, and he was glaring with enough intensity to set fire to the trees and create a mini bonfire. Grantaire offered to 'kiss the boo-boo better', to which Enjolras didn't even reply, choosing rather to storm off to brood in a corner and possibly try and regain his dignity from where it had shattered across the grassy ground. The telltale red ears that indicated that Enjolras was possessed by high emotion worried Grantaire slightly, wondering if he'd managed to piss Enj off again. But he let this detail slip from his mind when Joly and Bossuet came running towards them, soaking wet and grinning from ear to ear.

“You won't _believe_ what we found!”

“Let me take a wild guess,” Grantaire said, smirking, “you found a lake?”

Joly laughed, clapping his hands delightedly. “Yes! How on _Earth_ did you guess that?”

It appeared that the band of friends had chosen the absolute perfect place to stop and rest, as they happened to have landed not only a shady alcove, but also a beautiful lake, with frigid, translucent water that was a perfect ward from the intense heat of the day. Seeing as none of them had planned on encountering a lake, none of them had though to prepare any swimming clothes. Apart from Joly and Bossuet, who didn't seem to give any flying shits and had jumped straight back into the water, the rest were all a bit sceptical till Eponine made the first move.

“Oh, woman up,” she huffed, removing her spunky t-shirt (but not her shorts) and diving gracefully head-first to join the hooting pair already in the lake. That seemed to set everyone else in motion, some of them not bothering to remove any article of clothing and followed Joly and Bossuet's example of dunking themselves in the cool water clothes and all. Cosette's dress billowed out around her, giving her the appearance of a water nymph, and Marius was so distracted he accidentally managed to swallow half the lake water. Grantaire was the last one standing on the edge of the lake, considering whether he should remove his shirt or not. He decided against it and just fell forwards into the water, landing with a magnificent splash, the cheering of his friend's muffled by the water that engulfed him in its embrace. He'd barely surfaced when he heard another splash a bit further up, and he submerged his head again, keeping his eyes open, to see Enjolras sinking down into the water, his hair floating free from his hairband, eyes screwed shut and cheeks puffed out, seemingly frozen in time before his feet touched the shallow bottom and powered him up through the water.

Enjolras seemed to have regained his dignity, and was smiling through a flap of hair that was sticking to his face, which Grantaire found amusing till he was dunked ungracefully underwater by Enjolras. Grantaire, upon resurfacing, stuck out his tongue, pushing his wet hair out of his face. Their proximity alerted Grantaire on the sudden increase in freckles clustering on his face and bare shoulders (Enjolras had opted to remove his shirt), and how the tip of his nose was shiny and red. Grantaire poked it, and told him, matter-of-factly, “You're sunburnt.”

“Oh, well-spotted,” Enjolras muttered sarcastically, flicking water in Grantaire's face. Grantaire grinned, and turned round, swimming towards the deeper end of the lake where Eponine was floating, face turned towards the sun, a blissful smile on her face. When he turned round, he realised Enjolras hadn't budged. Ah, he thought. His smile turned wicked, eyes sparkling with laughter, as he dove another water and sliced cleanly through it. Grantaire was an excellent swimmer, and he took full advantage of it.

It's almost unnecessary to add that Enjolras was not very impressed when Grantaire shocked several years out of him by pulling him under. When he re-emerged and was done spluttering, his ears an interesting shade of puce, which probably had nothing to do with the fact that Grantaire was looking at him with glee, his sincere happiness making his features glow, he glared at Grantaire fiercely, but without much fire in his eyes. Grantaire smiled a bit wider, and Enjolras weakened. It took just a bit more wheedling for Enjolras to smile, and at long last he was laughing, his head thrown back in abandon, strands of hair sticking to his face, water rivulets running across his collarbones, which stuck out of the water, since he refused to move from the shallow area of the lake. Grantaire's mind was chock-full of moments which had to be written down in his list, lest they escaped his memory, and he yearned to be back home, with his canvas at hand, painting the scene in all its magnificence and vibrancy. At the same time, contradictorily, he wanted this moment to last forever, here in the presence of his friends, surrounded by their laughter, by their company and by their love.

Later that day, when Grantaire was lying on his bed, sporting quite the suntan and thinking back on Enjolras's three million newly formed freckles, and his spectacular fall out of the tree, he realised how, in a very similar manner, he'd fallen into something rather unexpected concerning the very same person.

He'd fallen in love.

***

It had been a few weeks since Enjolras had fallen out of a tree and straight into Grantaire's heart. It had taken him a while to realise that Enjolras had completely ensnared his heart from a very long time ago, as unbelievable as it sounded. For a cynic to fall in love with a believer, it was an almost hilarious concept. Thinking back, even as he sat there on the table, with his legs dangling down, watching Enjolras gesturing wildly at a whiteboard they'd erected in the back of the Cafe Musain, their meeting place, he realised that it wasn't his beauty that first attracted him to Enjolras. It was his vigour, his iridescent words, his hope for a better life. His heart had been a goner from the first moments his eyes had fixed themselves on the blazing figure, and he had left his imprint there on, emblazoned on his retinas, so that every time he blinked, the bright silhouette would glare back at him, frozen in a moment of righteous glory.

He shook his head bemusedly. Of course, he had to choose the brightest star to fall in love with. Typical of him, to always aim for the highest. It was also typical, that when he got too close, he'd get shot down. But, as always, Grantaire jumped straight into the challenge. After all, if all else failed, he'd always have his precious wine. Wine never failed to bring you rushing straight down to the ground if you let yourself fly a bit too high.

He finally turned his attention to the actual topic in discussion, and his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he tried to trace back to the original start point. With the help of Jehan, who'd observed quietly as his expression grew more and more lost, and had stepped up gracefully and filled him in with the happenings, he'd managed to finally the gist of the conversation. Apparently, Combeferre was trying to convince Enjolras that going to some politician's important ball to figure out if he was planning to try and crush them was a good idea. However, it was the catch that was making Enjolras wave his hands about so vigorously, floundering under the weight of both Combeferre and Courfeyrac's looks. Combeferre was looking at him measuringly over the rim of his glasses, while Courfeyrac was grinning from ear to ear, nodding at every word Combeferre said and just enjoying seeing Enjolras squirm uncomfortably under their combined gaze.

The catch was that Enjolras had to go in disguise, as a young lady.

The argument was a very convincing one. Combeferre had casually pointed out that Enjolras could easily pass off as a young lady, and it would be the best disguise, as no one would guess that the revolutionary young leader would dare go to such a ball anyway, so no one would try and make a resemblance between the girl and him. And, Courfeyrac had butted in, if it happens, he could always say Enjolras was 'her estranged brother', and 'she' was only there to bring honour to 'her' family. Grantaire was vaguely sure he'd heard that quote before. After a while, his expression cleared and he exclaimed quietly to himself, “Ah yes, _Mulan_.” Jehan, still in hearing distance, looked a little perplexed.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was spluttering, his usual eloquence buried beneath layers of indignation and rising panic at the realisation that he was being cornered into something that was way beyond his comfort zone. All the separate conversations that had been filling the little room all quietened as everyone turned their attention to their leader. Enjolras, feeling the added pressure of all the eyes in the room, caved in.

“Oh, all right, fine! But I'm not going alone!”

Combeferre smiled triumphantly, and Courfeyrac gave a whoop of triumph, both of them casually ignoring the last part of Enjolras's defeated statement. Joly skittered up to Enjolras and clapped him on his back, ranting about makeup and how it would definitely make those cheekbones of his more cutting-edge than they were, doubtlessly tricks he'd learned from his and Bossuet's girlfriend, Musichetta. Enjolras was still looking lost, nodding absently to Joly's chatter as his gaze skittered over the people in the room, looking for something, or some _one_.

His eyes froze on Grantaire, and Grantaire knew now how a deer felt when confronted by the steely gaze of a hungry tigress.

“Perfect,” Enjolras said, pausing Joly mid-sentence as he turned round to follow Enjolras's gaze, smirking when it led him to none other than Grantaire.

Grantaire thought he could feel sweat start forming beads on his forehead as Enjolras strode purposefully towards him, his face set in a determined frown. Grantaire had a fleeting impression of an angel setting forth to accomplish some heavenly deed, before Enjolras was upon him, leaning against the table on which Grantaire was sitting.

“Come with me.”

Grantaire fought the urge to agree immediately, because to be honest, he'd agree to anything Enjolras asked of him, if it wasn't his opinion, because Grantaire would always find a loophole which he used as an argument. Instead, he lifted an eyebrow, lips curving in a sardonic smile as he brought the bottle of beer he'd been cradling to his mouth, taking a sip, not breaking eye-contact with the blonde. When he lowered the bottle to rest on the table, he noticed Enjolras's gaze following it, the tip of his nose pink, possibly a reaction to the earlier confrontation with his two friends who'd betrayed him so efficiently. He answered the request with a question.

“What makes you think that I'll accept so easily, Enj?”

Enjolras floundered some more. He was evidently wholly unused to being pushed around and questioned, and was finding it hard to keep up with the sudden hurdles this presented him with. “Um...well...” His face scrunched up momentarily, and the brightened, his usual confidence reasserting itself firmly in his composure. “No one will associate you with me. You're usually in the backgrounds when we hold our most important meetings, and when you're not, you show your...unfortunate...opposition pretty clearly. You're the perfect man for the job!”

“You mean the perfect victim.”

“Martyr, perhaps? For the greater good?”

“I'm busy.”

Enjolras right eyebrow merged with his hairline. Grantaire pretended to be hurt, covering his heart with a hand, his mouth opening in mock affront. “Your disbelief hurts my fragile heart.”

Enjolras smirked, his eyebrows still not level, and Grantaire admired his strength of will to not melt completely in his gaze. His strength of will wavered alarmingly when Enjolras upped his game and his expression turned pleading.

“Please, for the love of whatever you believe in, don't let me do this alone.”

Ironically, the only thing Grantaire believed in was Enjolras, and it was for his very unfortunate love for him that he eventually agreed.

It was for this reason that he found himself staring unabashedly at the really, really pretty block of apartments where Enjolras apparently lived. Enj had invited him over early on the night of the ball, because he was apparently, 'regretting every word he said' and he needs 'moral support'. Grantaire wasn't sure he was the right person to help with that, but he didn't really question it. Seeing Enjolras in his natural habitat would be an interesting character study, anyway. He studied the doorbells till he found Enjolras's, and pressed his finger to the button, letting it linger for what he knew was an annoyingly long time. When Enjolras's voice crackled over the intercom, he sounded pissed off. Grantaire grinned. Mission accomplished.

The journey up the elevator gave Grantaire time to compose himself and ready his usual casual stance. He reached Enjolras's floor with no further ado, and he strode up the corridor with a sense of purpose.

He was _not_ ready for what came next, and it sent the barricades that he'd carefully constructed round his heart crashing down.

Enjolras was leaning against the door, his hair falling down in wild, golden ringlets, disappearing beyond sight past his shoulders, a few stray strands curling round his exposed collarbones. His shirt was a few sizes larger than it was meant to be, hanging off his lean frame, the casualness of the gesture causing Grantaire's breath to stutter in his throat. His eyes were half-closed – he was barely awake. Grantaire frowned at this. “Did you sleep last night?

Enjolras's eyes narrowed shiftily. “Yes...?”

Grantaire glared at him.

Enjolras squirmed. “No...?”

Grantaire crossed his arms.

“I needed to finish a couple of speeches, and had some things to catch up with and...”

Enjolras trailed off as Grantaire moved towards him, turning him round and steering him inside the apartment. “Sleep.”

“But–”

“No. I won't hear a word of it. And if you're worried, no, I won't ransack your apartment.”

Grantaire tried not to be too jealous of the classy furniture that decorated the apartment, and headed straight for a black, sleek, leather sofa, on which he pushed Enjolras, who sat down and glared at him ineffectively, his tiredness softening the edges of his frown.

“Frown all you want, I'm not gonna go back on my orders.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, still sitting up. Grantaire's eyes strayed to his hair, and he remembered something an ex-girlfriend of his used to do. He grinned. “Wait, I'll braid your hair. That way, when you wake up, it'll have curled nicely.”

Enjolras looked sceptical. “Does it work?”

“Like hell it does. Now turn around, and stop complaining, you twat.”

Enjolras muttered something that sounded like “arsehole” but obliged. Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras's hair, taking in the way Enjolras's back arched involuntarily, and swallowed thickly. He distracted himself by splitting the hair (with some difficulty) into three parts, his deft fingers dashing in and out of the curls, weaving his way down the length of Enjolras's hair. As he reached the end, Enjolras suddenly leaned back. Grantaire caught him, and realised belatedly, that Enjolras had fallen asleep. Grantaire smiled with an awfully smitten look on his face, and pillowed Enjolras's head carefully on his crossed legs. His fingers played with a few stray curls that has broke free of Grantaire's neat plait, and, with his head leaning against Enjolras's hilariously expensive sofa, he followed Enjolras's example, and promptly fell asleep.

When he startled awake, it took him some time to get his bearings. He was alone on the sofa, and the light of the sun had dimmed considerably. He took out his phone, running through the unread messages and dismissing them, finger hovering over the Memo pad for a while, before pressing it and typing in, “falls asleep when you braid his hair, what an actual dork”. He got up and stretched, just as Enjolras bustled in, half out of his clothes, hair still tied in a braid, albeit one that was halfway unravelled. Upon seeing that Grantaire was awake, he launched into frenzied speech.

“We're gonna be late, and it's all your fault, why on Earth do I listen to you? Oh fuck, where did I put my fucking dress...” His voice grew muffled as he walked out of the room without sparing Grantaire a second glance, and Grantaire could hear his swearing worsen at each passing second. Grantaire was impressed. It was quite an astounding repertoire.

Somehow, Enjolras found the dress, which he'd borrowed from Cosette, who was the closest in size to him. Grantaire tried not to let his jaw drop when Enjolras came out of his room, the long skirt swaying as he placed one foot carefully in front of the other, his feet adjusting to the flimsy height his heels had added to his already considerable height. The dress, made out of crimson satin, was fitted with lace, which began where the neckline ended, flowing up to come to a stop at the base of Enjolras's neck. The waistband of the dress fit snugly around his waist, and the foam breast pads Eponine had given him (after laughing for ten minutes straight) created a soft bulge which emulated breasts and gave Enjolras's figure a more believably female look. Enjolras looked down at himself self-consciously, poking at the bra from over the fabric of the dress, obviously uncomfortable to the unusual feeling of having breasts. “How's this?”

Grantaire almost blurted out, “Beautiful,” but thought it a bit too forward. He went on the safer route, opting for, “Awesome”. He moved closer, lifting Enjolras's face and pushing his shoulders back, instructing him to stand tall. Enjolras's blue eyes looked back at him, filled with doubt, and Grantaire rolled his eyes back at him. “You look really good, Enj, believe me. No one will believe you're that old snot Enjolras.”

Enjolras pursed his lips, and Grantaire grinned, eyes roaming the dress' neckline, realising that the hook at the back was still open. He snaked his hands round, fingers fumbling slightly till he managed, and then he reached for the plait, running his fingers through it till it came apart. He tugged at a few curls, bringing them to the front to frame Enjolras's face, and stepped back, observing his handiwork.

“Yeah,” was all he managed to get out of his curiously dry mouth.

Enjolras was still looking unsure, but he nodded, and suddenly scrunched his nose. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“Are the horror stories about mascara true?”

Grantaire snorted. At that moment, the bell rang, and Grantaire jumped, not having expected anyone else to be joining them. Enjolras, who'd made no reaction at the sudden sound, looked relieved. “That'll be Cosette.” He took a step, apparently having forgotten he was wearing heels, and swayed alarmingly. Grantaire reacted impulsively, grabbing his flailing arm and steadying him.

“Maybe I should get that.”

“That's probably a good idea.”

Grantaire let Cosette in, watching her as she strode in like an army general about to confront her soldiers. She ordered Enjolras to walk, barking orders like “Head up!” and “Try not to look like a duck, that'll be a dead giveaway.” Enjolras grew redder and redder at each order, until he sat down and refused to get up. Cosette stroked her chin, and dove into her bag, taking out an inordinately large amount of items until she emerged holding a pair of ballerina shoes. “If you promise me to make an effort and try and walk, I'll lend you these, and you can swap shoes when you tire yourself.” She smiled triumphantly, and Grantaire, who'd been silently watching the whole thing from his position, leaning against the wall, silently wondered how such a small, petite girl managed to control Enjolras that easily. Enjolras huffed, and without saying a word, he stood up again.

After pacing up and down the length of his living room for around five minutes, he seemed to have mastered the ability of walking, and Cosette handed over her ballerina shoes with a grin while telling him she'd been meaning to give them anyway, and ducking when Enjolras reached over to flick her nose.

Enjolras's ordeal was only halfway over. When Cosette dove back into her bag and came out brandishing a handful of brushes, a variety of products, and the dreaded mascara wand, Enjolras closed his eyes in horror. Grantaire saw his lips moving, and caught the words “murder Courfeyrac” and “smash Combeferre's glasses” among the murmured babble.

While Cosette struggled with Enjolras, Grantaire thought he'd best get himself ready, having been too engrossed in seeing Enjolras's gradual (if reluctant) transformation to really worry about his own. He rampaged around in search of his bag, which he'd thrown somewhere when he'd come in, and upon finding it, rummaged through its contents and extricated a shirt and trousers, slightly rumpled but on the whole presentable. He disappeared into the bathroom, dressing up quickly, which took him a quarter of the time it took him to school his hair into some kind of order. When he was satisfied, he emerged again, glancing over at Enjolras, eyes widening at the transformation that had come over him. His eyes were framed by a haze of nude eyeshadow, a delicate line of eyeliner forming a perfect wing at the edges. His lashes, already long, fluttered slightly, trying to get used to the added weight of the mascara. His lips were painted red, his cheekbones made even more prominent by the crafty contouring Cosette had applied. She was leaning back, looking tremendously pleased with herself, and Grantaire had to congratulate her on her success. Enjolras looked at him, chewing at his bottom lip and earning a glare from Cosette, who swatted her hand in the direction of his face in an effort to stop him from ruining his lipstick before even stepping out of the house. Enjolras stood up, wobbling a bit, and walked towards Grantaire, with infinitely more grace than before. He ran his hands over Grantaire's shoulders, straightening his shirt and frowning slightly, tucking a lock of long, blonde hair behind an ear and walking off presumably in the direction of his bedroom.

Grantaire let out the breath that he had not even realised he'd been holding, and realised that Cosette was smirking at him. “Joly was right! You're smitten!”

Grantaire grinned abashedly, his hand going to the back of his neck as he lowered his eyes. Cosette giggled, delighted that he hadn't even tried to deny it, and said, in a low, conspiratorial voice, “We were all a little bit in love with Enjolras at some point, so we all know how you feel. How long has it been?”

Grantaire said, truthfully, “Since the first time I saw him.”

Cosette whistled. “Okay, you win. Courfeyrac had taken like, three months, before he gave up, and realised that Combeferre was a much better, although just as oblivious, alternative. He's been pining for six months, but Combeferre and Enjolras are both as thick as blocks of cement.” She shrugged. “Although, Enjolras seems to seek your company a lot. Who knows,” she began, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, “maybe he's-”

Grantaire's hand shot out to cover her mouth as Enjolras walked back into the room, carrying what looked like a limp green piece of cloth, which turned out to be a bow tie. He raised an eyebrow at the scene, and Grantaire hastily removed his hand, wiping remnants of Cosette's lipstick along the length of her arm, wincing slightly at her high-pitched squeal.

Enjolras decided not to pursue the matter further, and walked up to Grantaire, twisting the bow-tie round his neck and knotting it, fingers moving deftly, finishing with a flourish. “There,” he said, satisfied. “Matches your eyes,” he added as an afterthought, not meeting the article in question, opting to look at the time and making a scene at their apparent lateness. Grantaire pretended not to notice how Cosette smiled sweetly at him, pointedly ignoring her as he reached for his car keys, which he'd thrown on the coffee table.

“Well, we'd best be off. Got to take over from James Bond today,” Grantaire said cheerfully, jangling his keys and offering his arm to Enjolras. “Milady,” he said, mock-seriously, relishing in the way Enjolras's eyes rolled, but how his mouth still curled involuntarily into a smile. Cosette leaned close to Grantaire.

“I'm getting tooth cavities.”

“You keep going on like this, and you won't even have teeth.”

“What are you two whispering about?”

“The best way to haul you to the elevator without you falling to your face.”

“How rude.”

“My speciality.”

Somehow (Grantaire secretly believed that it was a miracle) Grantaire and Cosette managed to deliver Enjolras to Grantaire's car without damage. Cosette kissed them both on the cheek, taking extra care when it came to Enjolras so as not to smudge her perfectly executed workmanship. She left in a jangle of bracelets and a last whiff of flowery perfume, and Enjolras and Grantaire were alone again.

Grantaire got into the driver's seat and fiddled absently with the bow-tie. Enjolras glanced at him briefly, reached over and slapped his hands away. “Don't,” he said, half-sternly. “You'll unravel it.”

“Sorry, boss.”

Enjolras huffed, rearranging the seatbelt in a more comfortable position. He seemed to be struggling with something, as if he was trying to get words out but not being able to process them in the right order. Grantaire helpfully filled in the silence by remarking, “You look constipated.”

Enjolras's hands tightened into loose fists. “We're gonna be late.”

“Nah, I can get us there in five minutes.”

“Five? It's on the other side of town.”

“Hmm... Maybe three?”

Enjolras was about to say something, but Grantaire cut off his words by starting the car and shooting out of the parking space, and proceeded to drive manically until, true to his word, they arrived in six minutes flat.

It may be considered unnecessary to add that Enjolras had not gotten out a single word in those six minutes and had gripped on to the seatbelt with white-knuckled hands through the entirety of the journey.

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, grinning. “Well, I did say I won't allow the prettiest lady in the ball to be late, didn't I? Cheer up, princess, it's your turn to shine!” he said in an overly-bright tone, a huge grin plastered on his face.

It was only due to Enjolras's disabling heels that Grantaire didn't find himself face-first in the soils of the garden encircling the venue.

Grantaire and Enjolras walked towards the opening with as much grace as they could muster, Enjolras teetering slightly, leaning onto Grantaire. Grantaire tried not to let the proximity go to his head, and distracted himself by filling the silence with light conversation, Enjolras taking the hint and joining in, his voice slightly higher and breathier. Grantaire corrected him gently, directing him to a more natural-sounding voice, and soon, Enjolras had gotten the grasp of it. His walking skills also gradually improved, so that by the time they'd reached the entrance, he wasn't leaning on Grantaire's arm like his life (literally) depended on it.

They got in without a problem, using the invitations Combeferre had managed to acquire from somewhere. He wouldn't tell them from where, and the only answer they got was, “I have...sources,” as he pushed up his glasses and stalked off haughtily, his shoulders shaking imperceptibly with laughter. The room, with its gaping, ovular floors and swooping roof, was already churning with people, ladies with ridiculous feathers sticking out of precariously perched hats, dresses whose skirts swished and swayed around dancing figures, men with brightly coloured ties and top-hats walking briskly with wine glasses in their hands, a whole aviary of brightly coloured parrots, strutting, chattering and dancing, filling the room with gaiety and song.

Grantaire whistled beneath his breath, and even Enjolras's brilliant blue eyes widened slightly as they took in the scene before him. He jumped slightly when Grantaire leaned closer, raising his voice a bit so that Enjolras could hear what he was saying, and said, “You're still the pretty one.”

Enjolras felt his ears burn, and suddenly Grantaire's warm, reassuring presence faded from beside him, the promise of fetching them drinks lingering between them as he disappeared into the crowd. Enjolras fiddled with the strap of his bag, eyes darting round to survey his surroundings, and tried to regain his usual composure. He was Enjolras. Most people here had fallen prey to his slander, and many feared him. He stood a bit taller, his chin lifting without his conscious thought. He was here, he reminded himself, for a reason. When Grantaire returned with two glasses, he found Enjolras wearing his usual smirk, and felt something inside him twist. Ah, this was the person whom he fell in love with first, Enjolras the Just, with his cutting words and his dazzling ideas. The only star in the dark, dark night. Grantaire swallowed the feeling, the urge of wanting to kiss the lipstick off Enjolras's lips, to hear that beautiful voice, which spoke of justice and equality in such radiant terms, gasping for breath and pleading, wrecked and hoarse, whispering his name –

He was getting carried away. He chastised himself, even as he handed Enjolras the glass and watched his lips touch the cool glass, leaving a lipstick-mark on the rim when they parted contact. He tore his gaze away, looking around him, taking in the jangling cacophony of colours that whirled around them, tipping his own glass back and swallowing the drink in one go. He waited for Enjolras to finish his, which took a painfully long time and an impressive amount of restraining on Grantaire's end, and delicately plucked the glass out of his hand. He deposited both empty glasses neatly onto a passing waiter's tray, and held out his hand to Enjolras, whose expression went from confused to point-blank terrified.

“Oh no.”

“Oh _yes_.”

Grantaire didn't even bother waiting for Enjolras's answer. His hand reached out, clasped Enjolras's, and held on tightly as he dragged the reluctant blonde to the middle of the room. The first strains of violin were heard as a new song began, and Grantaire twirled Enjolras around to face him. “Calm down, I know what I'm doing.”

“I don't!”

“That's a first. But if you're gonna stand there judging people in the corner, you're gonna stick out like a sore thumb. What better way to blend in then to join the fun?”

“But we're gonna stick out more when we screw this up completely!”

“You have very little faith in me, _mon ange_.”

Grantaire had hardly enough time to compliment himself on that wonderful pun before the music started with earnest. He hastily directed Enjolras's hands to their assigned positions, one to his skirt and one held firmly in his own, fingers interlaced, and placed his free hand gently on Enjolras's waist, fingers curling slightly. The added height Enjolras's heels gave him meant that his eyes were at level with Grantaire's, and Grantaire could see something else beneath the layers of doubt and panic. Something he didn't realise was reflected in his own eyes.

“Breathe,” Grantaire advised, before forcing Enjolras to believe that yes, _fine_ , Grantaire was an excellent dancer.

They ended up dancing much more than Enjolras had had in mind (which had been none at all). He'd kicked off the heels in between dances, losing several centimetres but gaining a much surer footing, and he found himself laughing, intoxicated by Grantaire's wild grin, almost forgetting the true reason as to why they'd snuck in there in the first place. Wild strands of hair stuck to his sweaty face, which Grantaire would push out of his face gently, making sure not to rub away any make-up. After their seventh dance, Enjolras was forced to bring a stop to their revelry. The soles of his feet ached and he was breathless, several factors contributing to that last one, mainly the few extra drinks he'd drunk and the way Grantaire's hands constantly and maddeningly strayed lower down his back. This he blamed on the drinks he himself had drunk.

He dragged Grantaire outside, in the small garden that sprawled lazily behind the main hall, mainly because he needed some fresh air to concentrate, but also because he'd heard that the politician they were meant to be observing was out there. Grantaire came willingly enough, and Enjolras was struck with a sudden sense of guilt. Grantaire wasn't even part of this, and here he was, putting up with Enjolras's whining and constantly being pulled around. This led him back to the issue that was causing him to adopt the 'constipated look' several hours before in the car. He paused, Grantaire almost bumping into him, turning on the taller man and looking up at him in earnest. “Hey, R. Thanks.”

Grantaire blinked, and his face broke into a wide smile. He poked Enjolras's nose with a finger, and said, without his usual snideness, “Anytime.”

Enjolras smiled, and returned to his task.

The rest of the evening passed by interestingly enough. Grantaire proved to be better at hiding than Enjolras, managing to sneak in closer than Enjolras and eavesdropping on the unsuspecting politician. When he almost got caught, Enjolras stepped in and used his newly developed 'femininely wiles' to distract the person while Grantaire made a break for freedom. Enjolras managed to get lured into the conversation, and luckily, no one gave him any second glances or asked any weird questions. At some point, Grantaire returned, slipping in casually behind Enjolras, wrapping an arm loosely around Enjolras's waist, hand fitting snugly over Enjolras's hip, and after getting over the initial shock, Enjolras thought it best to act as natural as possible, and leaned into the touch, trying not to notice how his heart was beating faster.

At a certain point, Grantaire leaned his head against the mass of blonde curls, and whispered, “There's a guy who's been looking at us for a while, maybe now is the right time to leave.”

Enjolras closed his eyes briefly, telling himself that this was to think straight, and not because the feeling of Grantaire's breath against his neck had sent a shiver running down his spine. Really, he needed to control his drinking when he was surrounded by people, especially Grantaire. Eventually he nodded, politely excusing himself from the conversation and casually slipping his hand in Grantaire's as they made their way back. They got into Grantaire's car, and Grantaire got them out of there as quickly as possible without drawing attention to themselves.

It was dark by that time – the light of the moon was dimmed through the layers of cloud, and the street lamps were not much to alleviate the darkness of the night. Grantaire, having watched way too many criminal shows, took the home by a different road, which was longer and more winding. Enjolras dozed off, jerking awake when Grantaire gracefully sailed over a pot-hole in the road. They arrived much later, Grantaire going out to help Enjolras get out of the car. Enjolras had completely forgotten about his lipstick, which had smeared out of the neat lines Cosette had drawn, and Grantaire, without thinking too much about it, reached over and wiped the smear away.

He looked up, noticing how close their faces where, and how wide Enjolras's eyes had gone. Grantaire took a step back, thinking that he wasn't drunk enough for this, and saluted Enjolras wryly. He left Enjolras standing there, getting into his car and driving off into the night, his mind a jumble of alcohol, sleep and a growing abyss of helpless love into which he fell deeper every day.

The list Grantaire had started ironically had taken a tangent from being 'human things that Enj did' to 'cute things', and Grantaire wasn't sure how far he could hold out without losing himself completely.

***

News travels fast when one's group of friends consists of gossipy traitors. Soon, Cosette and Joly had filled in everyone about Grantaire's not-so-little crush on Enjolras, and he'd had Courfeyrac come up to him wishing him luck, and Bahorel and Feuilly would wiggle their eyebrows and burst into peals of laughter from across the room. If Enjolras noticed any of these, he pretended not to, although everyone agreed that Enjolras was a bit too oblivious about love for his own good. Grantaire had already resigned himself to the fact that he was probably doomed to pine for an eternity when the opportunity presented itself to him one day, almost too good to be true. In fact, it was too good to be true, because upon further inspection (read: interrogating Joly to the point where Joly blurted out the entire plan), it turned out the Grantaire's dear friends were all plotting to get Grantaire a date with the blonde equivalent of a thick cement wall.

The event was ice-skating. Winter had set in in earnest, and already Grantaire was going round with twice his weight in clothing. Infuriatingly, Enjolras was one of those people who always seem to wear light clothes, even in the coldest of winters, sauntering about with light jackets and no scarves (positively wild!), and who was always the warmest of the group. Grantaire took advantage of this by using him as a portable heater, usually just leaning his back against Enjolras's as he typed away at his laptop or sketched in his almost-full sketchbook. Their friendship had developed since that night of the event, although certain things had not been brought up, and Grantaire, although sorely disappointed, did not take the initiative. He assumed Enjolras, unused as he was to alcohol, had simply acted out and forgotten everything. The only noticeable difference that had resulted in Enjolras's behaviour towards him was the inclusion he now received, and the occasional hand which lingered a bit too long on his shoulder.

Grantaire lifted his head from where he was lying on the table, musing on Enjolras's hair and how hard it was to fully capture its texture on paper, and focussed on what Feuilly was saying. Feuilly was slightly older than them, and he happened to work in a town which was very proud to host an annual ice-skating event. The recent bout of cold weather had successfully frozen the huge lake around which the town was built, and, he was emphasising, hands gesticulating wildly, that when the snow began to fall and the sky began to darken, it acquired a certain mystical air. “It's a natural beauty,” he said, face enraptured as he gazed upon a scene which none of them could seen. “They transform it into a proper ice-skating rink too, mostly for safety measures. It’s convenient, as the tent they erect over it keeps out the snow and rain.” Grantaire felt excitement stir in him, his hands twitching, thinking about the opportunities he could get at drawing the astonishing landscape. His excitement was mirrored in Courfeyrac, who was leaning forward on the table, his eyes twinkling up at Feuilly, willing him to go on. Feuilly explained how there was this bookable lodge very close by, and it was quite affordable. He'd snooped around a bit, and found a weekend where it would be empty. He left it at that, ending on a questioning note, and all eyes gravitated, by force of habit, to Combeferre and Enjolras. Combeferre raised his hands in a sign of defeat, won over, and turned to look at Enjolras.

Enjolras sighed. “Why is it always me?”

“You're the boss, boss,” Bahorel supplied helpfully, earning a few chuckles and an exasperated sigh from Enjolras.

“But what about our assignments? And the meetings we have scheduled?”

“Come _on_ Enjolras, live a little!”

That last one had erupted from both Eponine, who was leaning back on a chair, with her feet propped up on the table, and Grantaire, who was propping his chin on both hands, staring intently at Enjolras with a smile on his face. He and Eponine shared a grin at how in sync their answers had been, and then they both turned back at Enjolras, whose mouth was pursed and his brow furrowed. Finally, casting one last look around him, at all the hopeful faces looking up to him, he gave in.

“Oh, all right, let's do this.”

They booked for a few weeks ahead, because one of the rules Enjolras had imposed was that at least they'd choose a weekend in winter break. Grantaire, who wasn't as drowned in assignments as the rest of them, having just started his first year in a different course, volunteered to take care of it. As the weeks rolled by and the day of departure grew close, everyone became more restless.

When the day finally dawned, it was raining hard. Out of all of them, only Grantaire, Feuilly and Combeferre had licenses, so all the friends (and their luggage, which ranged from the single backpack which Grantaire had packed to the two full bags Eponine had insisted were the 'bare necessities' – Marius had made a remark on how if anything, she certainly wasn't going to be bare considering that more than half their contents were clothes) had to fit in three cars, one of which was a two-seater. The two-seater was Feuilly’s, and he volunteered to fill up the space of the remaining seat and the boot with luggage, which left the rest of the friends and the remaining pieces of luggage to two cars. Both cars were regular four-seaters, so of course they managed to stuff six people in each car. Combeferre had bagged the quieter group, Courfeyrac calling shotgun while Cosette, Marius, Jehan and Bahorel crammed into the back seat. Grantaire got the rowdy group, with Eponine sitting next to him in front – throwing a smug look at a slightly bewildered Enjolras as she sat down – and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta sprawled on the back seat, with a very dissolute Enjolras wedged tightly in between the three. Joly had insisted on wiping the back-seat three times with wipes, which delayed them for ten minutes and left the car smelling slightly of disinfectant for the remainder of the journey.

Enjolras spent most of the journey in stubborn silence, while the others laughed and sang wildly at the top of their voices to an old CD Grantaire found stashed away in his car. It was around half-an-hour away from their destination that Enjolras finally gave in to Musichetta's nagging and joined them in their singing, proving that he was just as bad at singing as the rest of them were. Grantaire was forced to admit that if there was one thing Enjolras certainly didn't excel in, it would have to be singing.

When they finally arrived, it was well into the day, and the sun had emerged from behind the thick layer of cloud that had been obscuring the sky throughout most of their journey. The town was situated in a mountainous area, so the temperature had plummeted considerably as they approached it. Grantaire had already donned the largest jacket he could have squeezed into his small bag, which had left room for practically nothing else except the literal definition of the bare necessities. Even Enjolras, usually so unbothered by the cold, was shivering slightly. Grantaire pulled out one of his outrageously multicoloured scarf and went up to him, winding the exceedingly long scarf round Enjolras's neck. He nodded in satisfaction at the finished product, and went back to his car to help his friends drag out their luggage from where it was squashed in the crevices left from the space occupied by Eponine's stuff. Combeferre found Enjolras standing a few feet away from Grantaire's car, hand curled up in the scarf, staring blankly into space. Combeferre followed the general direction of Enjolras's stare, and was wholly unsurprised when it led to Grantaire. He patted Enjolras on the back, and Enjolras jumped out of his reverie and starting off towards the direction of the town.

The others followed shortly after, Combeferre hurrying in front so as not to lose sight of Enjolras. Grantaire found it bizarre how the sun was blindingly bright but he was still frozen frigid. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least. Feuilly took the lead after Enjolras almost got them horribly lost in a maze of houses which all scarily similar, pretending to be a tour leader and waving his umbrella enthusiastically around, creating quite a racket and earning quite a few glares from the residents of the otherwise quiet town.

They arrived in the lodge without anyone attacking them, the sun blazing down on them from high up in the sky. The lodge itself was quite pretty, the structure made out of dark wood with a picturesque snowy thatched roof and flowers blooming out of flower pots and window sills. The problem that immediately became clear when they all trooped inside of it was the worrying lack of beds. There was one double bed on the first floor, two single beds on the ground floor, a dusty, comfortable-looking sofa that curved round an ashy fireplace, and two large armchairs. They were thirteen in total.

It was decided, after much squabbling, that Eponine, Cosette and Musichetta would share the double bed, Feuilly and Joly would take the single beds, with Bossuet and Bahorel squeezing in with their respective partners, Jehan and Marius volunteered to curl up on each of the armchairs, Courfeyrac and Combeferre would take the considerably large sofa, which left Grantaire and Enjolras with practically nowhere else but the floor. Grantaire, with his extraordinarily high inferiority complex, and Enjolras, with his equally high sense of gallantry, decided that a giant pile of cushions would suffice pretty well as a bed. After that was settled and all their bags dumped around the entire plan of the lodge, they set off to the rink, mostly because Feuilly was enjoying the role of tour leader a bit too much.

The sun shone brightly on the snow covered houses, and the whole town had a slightly picturesque feel to it. Grantaire found himself taking mental notes on structures of buildings, the way snow caught on the branches of trees, the way the wind caught his friend's hair and sent it flying from beneath woolly hats. He grinned despite himself, caught out, the artist in him taking over his eyes and senses. Enjolras, walking beside him, seemed similarly absorbed in his surroundings, his mouth slightly ajar as he tilted his head up, squinting his eyes against the sun, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. He was distracted from his sky-gazing by a hand on his shoulder, and he turned round, finding Combeferre by his side, the bespectacled man immediately launching into a conversation of whose topic Grantaire didn't quite catch. Enjolras answered back animatedly, his hands going out of his pockets to gesture around, his sleeves riding up to reveal smooth, freckled skin. The scarf that Grantaire had wound round his neck fluttered behind him, ludicrously colourful in contrast to his outfit. He could have taken it off, as Grantaire had expected him to do, but he hadn't.

Grantaire forcibly directed his gaze away from Enjolras, joining in Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet's extremely serious conversation on how abysmally bad they all were at ice-skating. Grantaire, who was actually quite good, decided to fool them all into believing he's bad, just to see their betrayed expressions when he casually drew circles round them, perfectly balanced on one foot. Maybe the useless years of dancing and discipling his body into becoming lithe and agile weren't so useless after all.

He didn't feel Enjolras's gaze alight on him from time to time, too absorbed in the laughter of his friends to notice. Combeferre, surprisingly alert for someone who had completely missed Courfeyrac's excessively obvious pining for him, noticed this, and knowingly placed a hand on Enjolras's arm. Enjolras looked at him, his eyes huge and sad, and Combeferre, looking solemn as he straightened his glasses, said softly, “Don't wait too long.”

Enjolras looked slightly taken aback at how far Combeferre's intuition had seen, but nodded all the same. He replied back, using the same tone of voice, “No. But I'm scared.”

Surprisingly, Combeferre smiled. His teeth shone white in the sun as he strode forward, his lingering words echoing loudly in Enjolras's head.

“You don't need to be. Trust me.”

_Trust me_. What did that mean?

They arrived at the rink, which was already bustling with people, even though evening had not yet began. It was mostly full of small children, who, Enjolras would bet his life, could probably skate better than him. The sound of happy laughter filled the air as fond mothers chuckled amongst themselves, and the atmosphere was light and cheery. The friends separated at the arrival, Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet running off to the small café to restock their caffeine supply, Grantaire wandering off to God knows where on a mission to find the loo, with Jehan trailing aimlessly after him, staring in awe at everything new he encountered, and Cosette and Marius hurrying towards the rink itself, Cosette dragging Marius behind her, her lilting voice spilling through the air as they disappeared. The rest of them followed Marius and Cosette, at a slower pace.

Enjolras was beginning to feel dread set in. He knew that his coordination skills were close to zero, and it was for one of these reasons that he'd been reluctant to agree to this trip in the first place. He knew that he was proud, maybe too proud, but he really didn't like making a fool of himself in front of his friends. He thought of himself as the backbone of the group, the one that kept them all in check and grounded to seriousness, and to be clowning about was not something that helped to maintain that image. Even as he was thinking this, he could hear a familiar, snide voice remarking, _How very preposterous_. His conscience had adopted Grantaire's voice and choice of words, and he felt himself immediately rile up, ready to fight back. But Grantaire's voice continued, gentler this time. _You're allowed to be human for once, Enj. You can't always stop yourself from loosening up a bit._

_I must_ , Enjolras replied back bitterly, but it was a soft rebuke, almost an automatic response, spoken only because it was his norm to argue with Grantaire even over small, irrelevant things.

But you won’t, his conscience replied, and this time it had Combeferre's voice. The smile in his voice was audible in his next words. _You'll do it for him._

Enjolras burned bright red, dismissing his thoughts and avoiding looking at anyone for a solid two minutes.

Grantaire and Jehan came back at the same time as the trio, who returned from the café with trays of steaming mugs. The mugs drew in Marius and Cosette as honey attracts bees, and soon they were all huddled at the side of the rink, hands wrapped around the warmth radiating from their mugs, absorbing the heat and surrounded by the quiet conversation. They all agreed unanimously that they'd wait for the rink to clear a bit before taking on the challenge for fear of accidentally killing off a couple of children. In the meantime, they walked a small distance to a small restaurant that Feuilly claimed to be the best in town.

Everyone agreed wholeheartedly, as indicated by the supreme silence that reigned over them as they indulged themselves in the food.

They lounged around in the sofa area of the rink, just chilling. When Bossuet happened to point this out with an utterly straight face, he was greeted by a plethora of blank faces before everyone simultaneously dissolved into laughter. Grantaire, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, informed them that he was getting cold feet about the whole ice-skating thing, which prompted Bahorel to pipe up, “Man, just chill the fuck out,” which of course, started a pun-exchanging war, their boisterous laughter possibly helping to catalyse the departure of most of the families that had been occupying the ice rink. Enjolras didn’t participate in the brutal pun war, opting to roll his eyes dramatically at each increasingly worse pun, occasionally wincing when he received an elbow dig in his ribs from Courfeyrac, who was sitting next to him and was besides himself with laughter. A particularly stupid one, again from Grantaire, managed to break his icy composure and he cracked up, the sound of his laughter briefly silencing everyone in its unexpectedness before they all joined in raucously. Time passed away faster like that, and soon the ice rink was vacant enough for them to possibly not murder any innocents.

It turned out, as Grantaire had foreseen, that no one had any knowledge of what ice-skating consisted of. Of course, when his feet touched the ice and he set off like a bird taking flight, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s betrayed faces were the first he took in, his mouth stretching into an uncontrollable grin as he closed his eyes briefly, feeling the wind created by his onwards motion lift the curls peeking out from beneath his slightly too-large woolly hat, feeling, for once, in control. When he’d glided round the edge of the rink and had come to rest at the starting point, he had to dodge Musichetta’s attempt at swiping his hat of his head, his laughter made breathy from the exhilaration of the rush across the ice. He was barraged by multiple “How???”s and “TRAITOR!”s, which he brushed away by an exaggerated shrug, his eyes automatically seeking Enjolras and finding him already looking at him, his face open and unguarded, a curious expression softening his features and turning Grantaire’s insides into mush. It was immediately replaced by a more solid expression, one of his eyebrows curving prettily over the other, his mouth curling upwards on one side, as if to say, “Well, I’ll be damned.” Grantaire, feeling the warm flush on his cheeks and knowing instinctively that it was not just the cold air which had made his blood converge in his cheeks, managed to somehow miraculously look away, his eyes dancing with glee as he took in his friends’ faces and feeling an overwhelming love for every person gathered there. What a strange man he seemed to himself when compared to just a few months ago. What differences can be wrought in one man who thrives in darkness, when he is introduced to the merest glimpse of the vibrant sunlight.

He ended up trying to teach all his friends how to skate, or rather, how to stay upright, which was proving to be the hardest step. It was harder than expected, because he had found it quite easy to balance, possibly because of his athletic background, which had gained him a litheness which had often been wasted from his lack of motivation to do anything. Now, however, and perhaps for the first time, he thanked God that he had acquired such gracefulness. Eventually, everyone seemed to have gotten the hang of it, after several failures and many bruised butts. Combeferre was perhaps the most successful, surprisingly enough, and he now found himself shuffling around in slow circles round the rink, dragging behind a struggling Courfeyrac, who was clinging to Ferre with both hands securely clasped round Ferre’s upper right arm with the appearance of never letting go. Musichetta was resolutely trying to hold herself upright, both her arms flung out wide on either side, her face scrunched up in concentration. Eponine had lost her usually tough exterior, replacing it with one of frustration bordering on excitement as she managed to skate in a somewhat straight line for some distance before toppling over, easing out of her a melodic laugh as Grantaire swooped down and dragged her upright again. Marius and Cosette were in fits of giggles, both of them swaying around dangerously and unbalancing each other, and the rest were all in various states of resembling towers of jelly in an earthquake of varying strengths. 

Enjolras was by far the worst pupil Grantaire had ever taught. As soon as his left blade had made contact with the slippery ice, he went flying, blushing a fierce red from top to bottom when he landed butt-first on the ice, and refusing any help from anyone, resulting in an agonisingly long minute of flailing around till he managed to righten himself, leaning heavily on the border round the rink. Grantaire had managed to complete three rotations around the rink during this time, and Enjolras, exasperated, had yelled, “Be serious!”, to which Grantaire had replied, with a grin that spanned the diameter of the sun, “I am wild!” After several more trials, which all ended with a slightly different version of the one already described, Enjolras gave up, sitting on the slightly lower ridge that marked the entrance into the rink and sulking. His hair was in disarray, and his scarf ends were unbalanced. Grantaire wordlessly halted in front of him, spraying particles of ice in his wake, and looked down at him with an unreadable expression. Enjolras’s mouth had already opened, undoubtedly trying to form the words, ‘No, I shall _not_ be trying again,’ but stopping himself when Grantaire leaned down, his hands deftly undoing the scarf and retying it so that the edges matched each other in length. 

“That’s better,” were Grantaire’s only words before he departed again, joining their friends at the centre of the rink, leaving behind a waft of cold air which soon disappeared. Enjolras was thus left alone, his eyes boring twin holes in the ice of the rink and his mouth twisted into a sad little pout.

Grantaire’s eyes often skimmed over the point where Enjolras was sat, his eyes gazing mournfully into the distance as if contemplating the best way to escape and go home, and he would feel a pang of guilt twisting in his stomach. But he had to remind himself that if Enjolras didn’t feel like drowning in an endless pool of self-pity, he could make the tiniest bit of effort, get off his high horse and join in the fun. With that in mind, he managed to ‘ignore’ Enjolras, focussing instead on the laughter of his friends and on the freedom granted to him as he flew from one side of the rink to another, feet skimming the top of the ice as he balanced precariously on one foot. 

It was of no wonder that Enjolras was as silent as a whole cemetery of graves on their way back to the lodge, all of them tired and bruised but jovial. Enjolras walked behind them, Grantaire’s scarf still secured round his neck, one rung hiding the lower part of his face, which Grantaire took as protection against the cold, not realising that Enjolras had discovered that R’s distinctive smell clung to it and was actually enjoying the strange feeling of security he felt when he breathed it in. 

When they finally reached the lodge, they all crowded in, sending snow flying everywhere as they trampled around the cold interior. Enjolras disappeared, his quiet voice, which was barely heard over the clamour, stating that he was off to take a bath. The rest of them busied themselves with cooking and trying to make the living space more cosy, as the light outside dwindled and slowly day turned into night. After everyone had gotten washed, they all gathered round the large, heavy, wooden table and ate, and slowly, the ice thawed out of Enjolras’s face as he grudgingly let go of the events that had happened earlier that day. This was partially due to the fact that Grantaire’s laugh did marvellous things to his heart, which he thought was due to the rarity of it. It wasn’t that Grantaire didn’t laugh, but it was quite rare for him to laugh so heartily and so fully - a true laugh. 

Everyone was lamenting loudly about how many bruises they sported on their butts and general body parts, and Courfeyrac and Bahorel were just about to start comparing exactly how large some of these bruises were when Jehan mercifully intervened, sliding in the idea of watching a movie before everyone retired to their separate sleeping locations. This proposal was greeted with relief from some of them and disappointment for others, mostly Courfeyrac, who had _really_ wanted to have an excuse to whine all day long about the ginormous purple bruise forming on his elbow. 

The movie voted on which had gained the majority vote was, as Enjolras put it, whispering to Grantaire, who was sitting next to him, “A traditional non-evocative bland attempt at romance with a slight hint of dull plotline”. Grantaire, twenty minutes into the film, had to grudgingly agree, patting a sobbing Jehan on the head as the movie proceeded. He could see Enjolras dozing off next to him, his head descending slightly before he forced himself to look up again. Grantaire, on a spur of the moment action, bumped his shoulder into Enjolras, and the latter, who was made unsteady with sleepiness, rocked sideways and almost toppled over on top of Grantaire. As it resulted, he managed to stop himself before he completely overbalanced, his head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder in a profound effort to do just that. He glared up at Grantaire, already raising his head, but Grantaire shook his head slightly, and Enjolras finally got it. He mouthed ‘Oh’, before he allowed his body to relax, and Grantaire tried not to let the feeling of his warm breath caressing his neck get to him, shooting glares at Cosette who was making heart-shapes with her fingers with a shit-eating grin on her face.

The movie stretched out agonisingly long, and Grantaire found that he had become hyper-aware of any miniscule movement that Enjolras made, and how his mass of curls was tickling his neck, and how one of his arms had snuck round his waist and had not let go, and Grantaire was finding it unimaginably hard to breathe, and -- 

His thought were brought to a screeching halt when Enjolras opened his eyes, apparently waking up, and looked up at Grantaire with huge, doe-eyed wonderment, and his mouth curved into a small smile, and then the moment was lost as his expression snapped back to Business Enjolras and he withdrew himself completely from Grantaire, drawing his legs up and hugging them with both arms, face buried in them, which, unfortunately for Enjolras but very fortunately for Grantaire, didn’t manage to hide his flaming ears. 

Finally, the movie ended, and everyone got up in a zombified haze and shuffled around getting ready to finally sleep. Everyone belatedly remembered the fireplace, and thus the fire was lit, the flames sending wild shadows dancing across the walls of the lodge. Everyone went up to their assigned sleeping places, the girls whispering to each other as they huddled up in cocoon of messy hair and huge, woolly sweaters. Marius went into Stalker ModeTM and followed Cosette with his eyes as she left the room with her beautiful blonde hair swaying round her shoulders, making Jehan fear for his life. Jehan huddled up in his quilt and pulled his feet up, falling asleep soon after, somehow managing to sleep even in such an uncomfortable position. Combeferre and Courfeyrac faced each other on the sofa, their legs weaving through each other, Combeferre looking at Courfeyrac over his glasses with a fond smile, completely ignoring the open book he had in his hands to give his full attention to whatever sleepy, delirious ramblings Courfeyrac was mumbling. The smile didn't match his eyes, who, although were fond, wore a closed-off expression, as if his brain was trying to process something that he didn't want anyone to know just yet. Joly and Bossuet were curled up together in one of the single beds, the small space not bothering them in the least as they fell asleep while looking at each other with quiet affection. Feuilly was already asleep, back curved against Bahorel, who'd thrown one of his arms possessively around Feuilly.

On the other hand, Grantaire was wide awake. Courfeyrac kept sending him suggestive looks from where he was slumped against the arm of the sofa, looks which Grantaire mirrored while glancing at Combeferre meaningfully. Enjolras was some distance away from him, looking up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes and a small pout on his lips, the blush from earlier still not completely faded from his ears. Suddenly, he turned around, sending cushions tumbling around as he inched closer to Grantaire. Grantaire was very close to the limit, the limit being that of not accidentally blurting out that he was hopelessly in love, which had only just been severely tested by the events which had unfolded on that sofa.

“You're very far away and I'm very cold,” Enjolras suddenly said, his voice low and rough, sleepiness making him sound grumpy.

Grantaire, who was wondering if throwing himself into the fire would be a much better option than his current situation, tried to joke. “Well, shucks, I can't change the weather, now can I?”

Enjolras scrunched his nose, and Grantaire pretended to huff in exasperation as he turned round, so that now they were both on their sides, facing each other. Enjolras's hair was out of its usual hairbands, the curls running every which way, falling in front of his eyes in disarray, catching on his eyelashes. In the background, Combeferre was getting up, rooting around for one of the crocheted quilts they’d gotten with them, which, upon finding it, he threw over Courfeyrac, who'd fallen asleep. Grantaire wasn't sure, because he was watching the whole scene play out from the corner of his eye (the majority of his attention being fully absorbed in Enjolras), but he thought he saw Combeferre lean down and leave a gentle kiss in Courfeyrac's hair.

Enjolras yawned widely, recapturing Grantaire's full attention immediately. Enjolras looked at him, blinking away tears that had sprang up when he'd yawned, and Grantaire gave in. He was weak, so weak, where Enjolras was concerned, and it was slightly worrying how he could be swayed so easily by this man even when he was more asleep than awake. Ah, what love can do to one's resolution and strength of will.

He moved closer to Enjolras, rolling him to face away from Grantaire, ignoring the small noise of protest that Enjolras made, and fitted his body against Enjolras, telling himself that this was just something he was doing to keep Enjolras, the Human Heater who was really not meant to be cold, warm, and he definitely imagined how Enjolras snuggled up to him, falling asleep after an agonisingly long time. And Enjolras definitely imagined how, just before he drifted off to sleep, he felt Grantaire's lips fall against the nape of his neck, just where his hair parted, leaving behind the sweetest and lightest of kisses.

The next day dawned as bright as the previous one. Grantaire woke up first, having become accustomed to waking up at the hellish hour of 5 for some unknown reason that he himself didn’t know. He found that he’d somehow managed to get his limbs mysteriously entangled with Enjolras’s, whose arms were encircling his torso and whose head was resting on his shoulder in a most endearable fashion. Grantaire found himself smiling fondly, and quickly trampled down on those emotions by attempting to come up with a foolproof way of escaping the blonde’s clutches without waking up the aforementioned blonde. Finally, after juggling between cushions and Enjolras’s head, and performing Oscar-worthy stunts, he managed to free himself. He huffed out a sigh, gazing at the still-sleeping Enjolras with a sinking feeling as he realised that now, there was no way in hell that he could crawl out of the hole into which this man had thrown him into. He bent down and carefully rearranged his head so that it was better cushioned, and trailed his fingers through his hair, raking back the curls that had fallen over his face. Enjolras stirred, his lashes fluttering slightly, and let out a small breath, still fast asleep. Grantaire felt a horrible squeezing sensation in his stomach and knew that now would probably the right time to stop staring at Enjolras.

Slowly, everyone began to wake up. The notorious absence of Grantaire wasn’t noted until Enjolras woke up and found an empty space where Grantaire was supposed to be residing. He didn’t worry too much at first, but when he realised that no one really knew where he was, he felt the first twitches of anxiety settle deep down inside him. He didn’t let it show on his face, even as everyone started tidying up the lodge to leave it ready for when they come back from the ice rink. Seeing as it would be the last day of their stay, they would have to vacate it pretty quickly in the morning, and Eponine had just casually saved them minutes of helter-skelter panic of waking up at daybreak to pack all of their belongings by suggesting that they prepare everything beforehand. Enjolras was just wondering whether he should see to Grantaire’s stuff too before the person in question suddenly burst in through the front door, carrying an abnormal amount of bags and wearing a huge grin which lit up the sky more than the rising sun. “What indecent human beings don’t start the day with breakfast?” he yelled cheerily to the stunned faces of his friends, who immediately associated the sudden smell of croissants with the contents of the bags Grantaire was carrying. Everyone pounced on the newcomer, whose laughter was the only thing that could be distinguished as he was assaulted by a living tsunami of hands.

After everyone had eaten and thanked Grantaire profusely for being ‘the best gentleman I have ever encountered God bless you and your kin oh my God”, as pronounced by Courfeyrac over a mouthful of croissant, they thought it better to set off early, in the hopes that their presence would completely scare off the kids. They knew it was a vain hope, but a hope nonetheless. Grantaire alternated between walking with Feuilly and discussing the history of the place, and walking with Enjolras and constantly trying to wheedle him into actually trying to skate. Enjolras pretended to sniff away his wheedling, but when Grantaire started making elaborate promises in an effort to break his steely composure, Enjolras decided to at least pretend to accept his proposal. Grantaire’s delighted face made him question whether it was a pretence or not. 

When they finally got there, Enjolras stubbornly refused any help from anyone. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it with his own dignity, the very same one which had suffered larger bruises than his own corporeal body. Grantaire hovered close by, a crooked grin showing his teeth, not betraying the fact that he was actually kind of worried. He knew that Enjolras was a very proud man who strived to prove that he could excel at anything (except singing – as everyone had already established), and that he would stop at nothing until he achieved, and Grantaire knew this all too well. He was starting to wonder whether falling flat on his face and possibly breaking his nose was one of the routes that emerged from the idea of 'whatever it takes', and he was pondering on the possibility that he might not have to wonder for very long as he watched Enjolras shakily make his way across the ice with a very determined look upon his face. He was so focussed on his figure that he didn't realise that the place had ominously emptied until Courfeyrac came up to him and whispered, “Go get him, tiger,” sprinting off with his ice-skating boots swinging wildly from his hands. Grantaire must have made some kind of betrayed (and slightly panicked) noise, because Enjolras turned round to face him. Grantaire saw the blade of the right boot stick to the ice and catch, and had a moment of brief calm in which he tried to come up with some sort of plan. His body, however, didn't much heed the instructions that his brain was trying to convey to his muscles, and sprang into action.

He was already gliding forward before his brain flashed the red warning sign, clearly trying to abort the mission which it had not green-lighted. But for once, Grantaire was confident. He was good at this, and he knew it. It came as easy to him as walking. It was one of the useless hobbies he'd picked up, one of those things he'd give as proof that he could actually accomplish things when he put his mind to it. He'd never thought he'd be using it to stop the person for whom he'd allowed his heart - the very one which he'd cast in stone - to break out of its shell, from falling and possibly breaking his nose. _Stranger things have happened_ , he thought in the milliseconds before he reached Enjolras, swooping low to catch the blonde as he fell forward, his arms going round his torso and beneath his armpits, hands gripping Enjolras's sides firmly and somehow managing to lift him clean of his feet. If he'd had any breath left, he would have tried to sing _The Circle of Life_ , but it was a miracle he was even managing to glide anymore, let alone _sing_.

Thankfully, they were quite near to the perimeters of the rink. He reached the edge and placed Enjolras on the lower entry-ridge, so that for once he was looking down at Grantaire. His cheeks were flushed red with the cold air and possibly the shock of almost seeing his life flash before his eyes, and his eyes had not moved from where they had landed and latched on to Grantaire's green ones, which had likewise been unable to tear themselves away. A stray lock of golden hair had fallen on his face, and Grantaire's hand reached up and schooled it back behind Enjolras's ears, his fingers trailing softly across skin. Enjolras's eyes closed briefly at the contact, and Grantaire realised that he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, so close to Enjolras that he heard him mumble, “Why did you catch me?”

Refraining from rolling his eyes, believing that it would ruin the mood and possibly shatter the miniscule chance that had suddenly dawned out of the blue, Grantaire said, half-mockingly, “Because I didn't want your pretty face to be smashed.”

Enjolras met his gaze again, the flush in his cheeks deepening. Grantaire's brain registered the fact that his face was suddenly much closer to his than it had been a few seconds ago. Grantaire's hands strayed down to Enjolras's hips, watching as Enjolras's hands reached out and tangled his fingers in the hair at the base of his neck, the touch of his fingers as scorching as fire. Grantaire could feel Enjolras's breath hitting his face, realising that he too had gravitated towards Enjolras, until their foreheads had bumped together. Grantaire touched the tip of his nose against Enjolras, the freckles marching over and off the bridge of his nose suddenly magnified, every detail of Enjolras's face which Grantaire had slaved away to reproduce on paper suddenly brought out in such magnificent detail. His mouth moved, tracing words that came to him on impulse.

“Do you permit it?”

Enjolras didn't answer. His lips, which were half open, curled up into a small smile, his eyes fluttered close, and a sigh left his lips as he let gravity do its work, allowing his face to slant down, closing the minute distance between them by placing his lips softly on Grantaire's.

It was almost resigned, the way they melted against each other, as if both of them had known this would eventually happen, and that they were meant to end up like this, lost until the other found them. Grantaire's hands moved from Enjolras's hips, sliding slightly up his back, eliciting a gasp from Enjolras, whose lips parted slightly, moving against Grantaire’s. Grantaire's teeth bit down on Enjolras's lower lip, tongue tracing the curve of the lip as his hands slid back down, fingers teasingly bumping down the knobs of Enjolras's spinal cord. Enjolras's breath rushed out of his mouth in a half-moan, which was quickly muffled by Grantaire, who breathed in the sweet breath, tasting Enjolras, feeling giddy, his heart trying to beat right out of his chest, pressing himself impossibly closer to Enjolras, his hands shaking as they curved very tentatively over Enjolras's ass, feeling Enjolras's hands tighten their grip in his hair, the thumbs tracing whorls in the faint stubble growing on Grantaire's jaw. Grantaire pulled back first, his tongue flicking out to dart over his lips, still warm from where Enjolras's lips had just been. Enjolras's eyes were still closed, his forehead leaning heavily against Grantaire's as he tried to regain his breath, which was stuttering, both out of the exhilaration of finally, _finally_ getting to kiss Grantaire, and also because Grantaire had literally taken his breath away. Grantaire could feel strands of Enjolras's hair falling over his face, feeling the high flush in his cheeks slowly fade, noting the ragged breath that was coming out of Enjolras's parted lips, still red and shimmering. Grantaire leaned up again, pressing a quick, hard kiss against them, unable to resist now that the chance had finally presented itself. Enjolras's eyes shot open, the blue impossibly bright, shining with unshed tears, closing again as he kissed back, matching the pace and putting behind it as much emotion as he could muster. They came apart again, and Grantaire brought one hand to Enjolras's cheek, resting his fingertips on the delicate bone structure of the face of the man standing before him. The gentle caress made Enjolras flutter his eyelids shut, a smile curving his lips upwards as a tear slid down his cheeks.

Suddenly, a wild cheer rent the air around them as all their friends came running back into the scene. Enjolras started laughing, frantically wiping the tears which kept on coming out despite his protests. Grantaire grinned. “We've been set up!” he yelled cheerfully, and then added, in a softer voice, for Enjolras's ears only, “Hey, are you okay?”

Enjolras nodded, placing a kiss on Grantaire's forehead. “I'm so very happy,” he confessed, his voice cracking with emotion. “To think I was worried that you wouldn’t feel the same…” 

His laughter returned as Grantaire moved closer to him and hugged him tightly, his own emotion rising up and choking him into speechlessness. Wrapped up as they were in each other, they hardly noticed the commotion, Grantaire even more oblivious seeing as his head was buried in the material of Enjolras's shirt. He only realised that something was happening was when Enjolras's took in a sharp intake of breath, and he peered round. His eyes opened so wide he was afraid they'd pop out.

Apparently Combeferre had somehow hit himself hard against the invisible wall that had blinded his eyes to Courfeyrac's pining, hard enough to break it, and had suddenly leaned in to capture Courfeyrac's lips between his own, which created an excellent diversion from Enjolras and Grantaire. Courfeyrac was frozen rigid in shock, even as Combeferre moved in closer, until, as if his heart had suddenly resumed beating, Courfeyrac melted, wrapping his arms round Combeferre as he returned the kiss with gusto. The yells and wolf-whistles of everyone combined brought a few people running to the scene, but that development went unnoticed by the two, lost as they were in their own private world. Grantaire looked away from them with a knowing smile, gazing up at Enjolras and finding him looking at him, catching the look in his eyes and feeling something flutter in his stomach. Enjolras, realising he'd been caught staring, flushed prettily, and Grantaire couldn't help but surging up and meeting his lips again, not giving a single damn that there were even more people gathered round their manic group of friends.

When they made their way to the lodge that evening, Enjolras's hand didn't budge from where it was interlocked with Grantaire's. Grantaire felt strangely light-headed, feeling the warmth seeping through Enjolras's hand, shivering slightly as the pad of Enjolras's thumb stroked the skin of Grantaire's hand. Things had happened fast, almost too fast, and Grantaire's mind had not yet fully made the transition from long-distance longing to...to _this_. Not that he was minding, to clarify. It was just unimaginable how only a day's difference could bring about such a change in their relationship. Mostly, he couldn't believe how his friends' joking plan to get him together with Enjolras had succeeded with flying colours, with the unexpected side-plate which was Combeferre finally awakening to the reality that yes, he was indeed utterly in love with Courfeyrac.

It was in such times that Grantaire looked back to that fateful day when he'd first seen Enjolras, that moment when his heart, shrouded as it was in shadows, was first confronted with light, and how that light had softened it enough to regain the capacity to love. He knew that this would not change his opinions in life, and that he and Enjolras would most likely still argue about everything under the sun, but Enjolras's presence in his life had given him something to believe in, not a concept or a divinity, but rather a person, a perfect being who was made perfect by how imperfect he was. His humanity defined his righteousness, and his fire for righteousness made him human, and a passionate one at that. Grantaire realised that he was happier than he'd ever been since a very long time ago, and he squeezed Enjolras's hand with the sudden wave of emotion this realisation had brought with it. The only explanation he provided Enjolras was, “To continue with your earlier statement, I'm also extremely happy,” which hardly did any justice to the philosophical musings of his mind, but had to suffice for his seeming inability to translate his thoughts into spoken words, which had resulted in a series of incoherent sentences before he decided to shut up.

The atmosphere of the second evening had shifted slightly. There was no longer any awkward cushion space to start with between Enjolras and Grantaire, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre were no longer on opposite ends of the sofa. Courfeyrac's body was sprawled over Combeferre's, one of his arms thrown wildly to the side, hanging over the edge of the sofa, the other disappearing beneath Combeferre's body. His head was buried in the crook of the other man's neck, and he was fast asleep, mouth slightly ajar. Combeferre was reading, one hand propping up his book and the other absently twisting Courfeyrac's curls, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose and his eyes occasionally straying from the text to gaze upon Courfeyrac's face, and his features would soften with some indescribable feeling.

Grantaire's body was angled towards Enjolras, who was lying on his side, looking at him. They kept up the gaze for a long time, conversing with soft looks and quiet voices, Grantaire's hands, unrestrained, occasionally straying towards Enjolras's face, trailing fingers across the soft, freckles skin. Enjolras would move closer at the touch, until they were so close that their breaths intermingled. They spoke about the past months, Grantaire telling him everything that he couldn't say before, and received back Enjolras's. It was at this point that they strayed back to the first time they'd met, how somehow they’d both gravitated towards each other, the two beings from the opposite end of the spectrum, and Grantaire informed Enjolras that his retina still had scorch marks from how bright he was shining on that day. Enjolras had shoved him at that, his laughter soft in an effort not to disturb anyone’s sleep. Grantaire ended up describing all the moments that had made him realise how deep he was into this whole thing, and received back, to his utmost surprise, a strikingly similar rendition from Enjolras’s part. They finally fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, the events of the day having completely drained them. They fell asleep in each other's arms, Enjolras’s body hugged from behind by Grantaire’s, legs tangled in each other and hands clasped together. And this time, Enjolras was perfectly sure that he hadn’t imagined the kiss which was placed just as softly on the nape of his neck, and when sleep finally claimed him, he was still smiling.

The drive home next morning was considerably more quiet than it had been on their way there. They were all still half-asleep, and the excitement of the day before had worn them out. Enjolras got to sit in the front this time round, with Eponine practically shoving him in while muttering darkly, “It’s about bloody time, you doofus.” Grantaire kept stealing glances at him while he was driving, unable to stop the smile that spread widely on his face each time, occasionally going wider when he caught Enjolras already doing the same. At one point, Enjolras reached out tentatively and placed his hand on top of Grantaire’s, which was resting on the gear lever, causing Grantaire to almost crash the car and the four seated on the back seat to yell loudly about ‘PDA’ and to ‘get a ROOM you two!!’. Enjolras had burst out laughing, and had been so infectious that in minutes they were all in stitches, and Enjolras’s hand had not budged from where it had landed, and Grantaire was almost 100% sure that this was all a dream. The one thing that made him think otherwise was the very real feeling of Enjolras’s thumb as it gently stroked his hand, and his radiant smile when Grantaire stuck out his tongue at him. It felt almost surreal, to see Enjolras in such a state of happiness. For the first time, it struck Grantaire that maybe, just maybe, it really was true, that Enjolras had gravitated to him almost at the same moment that he had to him. 

Almost as if they’d already known each other from before.

Grantaire shaded his eyes from the sudden sun, and smiled. What an absurd idea.

He looked back at Enjolras, seemingly unable to keep his eyes off him, and tried to smile, finding that he couldn’t as he was already smiling at full capacity. Needless to say, the running commentary through the entire drive were all on the lines of “lovestruck idiots” and “I can literally feel my blood sugar levels go up”, repeated at varying intervals with alternating levels of volume, and mostly from Eponine, who’d lost her single comrade-in-arms and was feeling slightly bitter about it. She was happy for Grantaire, obviously, but it was a bittersweet feeling, the fact that both Enjolras and Combeferre would come out of their blindness, and yet, Marius remained as blind as ever. However, Musichetta, who was acutely aware of what Eponine was going through, squeezed her hand, and whispered, for her ears only, “You’re a beautiful girl, and there are many decent young men out there, never you worry.” Eponine had smiled back widely, and her bitterness was quickly replaced by her old determination. 

The sun was already high in the sky when they arrived to their destination. Still in the separate cars, they shouted across windows on what would be the best option on what to do next. Enjolras crawled over Grantaire’s seat to shout at Courfeyrac that “what about the _assignment_ that we have due in next week?”, but all he got in return was a pout, which didn’t appease him much. Combeferre, sitting next to him, his hand discreetly in Courfeyrac’s, adjusted his glasses thoughtfully and said, in a careful voice, “It’s the last day of holidays. Might as well enjoy it.” For his pains, he earned a kiss on the cheek from Courfeyrac, who looked like Christmas had arrived early and was going to last for a whole week, and a death-glare from Enjolras, who muttered ‘traitor’ beneath his breath and retreated back to his seat. Grantaire, chuckling quietly beside, lowered his voice over the hubbub, and said, “Well, I get to see your face for a little longer, amiright?”

Enjolras blushed and didn’t say anything, but it was answer enough for Grantaire, who grinned and reknotted their hands together. 

Finally, they decided to crash at the nearest house, which happened to be Jehan’s. It was a small penthouse apartment, and it was quite easy to spot, because the small balcony attached to it was brimming with flowers painted in loud, vibrant colours. Jehan’s eyes lit up when he spotted them, and it was with relief that he muttered, “The wind didn’t knock down any pot, thank God.” He let them in and they crowded in in a subdued manner. He noticed and laughed. “Relax, guys, I’m actually a very untidy person. I’m not gonna mind if you, God forbid, crease the sofa throw or something. I’m gonna make some tea, anyone want something?” Everyone relaxed considerably after that, and Jehan was bombarded by sudden requests for hot beverages, which he took while tying his long hair up with a hairband, wincing as strands of it got stuck in the fabric and pulled painfully at his scalp.

They lazed around for most of the afternoon, with Enjolras keeping up his usual custom of arguing with the news while Grantaire retrieved his sketchpad from his messy bag and let his feelings flow out on paper. Comforted by the sounds of his friends around him, the feeling of their love binding them together, the family he never knew he could ever have, Grantaire allowed himself to start believing. Maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t as dark as it had always seemed to him. After all, he’d been allowed to get to know these people even when they’d seen him at his very worst, had not abandoned him even when he’d almost relapsed when life became hard again. And now he had Enjolras, who was like a firefly, bright and vivid, soaring and flying through the night sky of Grantaire’s disillusions, and finally alighting on his heart. Grantaire instinctively placed a hand over his heart, almost feeling the scorching, cleansing burn of fire that had been lit there. His pencil moved on its own, his hand following the lines as they soared, jumped and danced along the page, until there was no space to draw anymore, and the sky had darkened considerably. 

The friends started to drift off one by one. Most lived quite close, so they set off by foot. Eventually, Grantaire decided that he’d imposed on Jehan’s hospitality long enough, and he was sure that the poor boy needed a bit of quiet time without the constant murmur of Enjolras slowly dismantling every argument anyone said on television. He gave Enjolras’s hands, which had not moved from his for the duration of the stay, a gentle squeeze, enough to capture Enjolras’s attention. Enjolras turned his face to look at Grantaire, and suddenly seemed to realise the time. “Oh my, we’ve been here for a long while. Jehan,” he began, standing up and pulling Grantaire up after him, “thank you so much.” As always when speaking to his friends, Enjolras’s voice was warm and sincere. Grantaire swore that every time he heard his voice, he fell a bit more in love. Lord was he in love. Enjolras continued, sounding slightly less sure, “We’ll...um...leave now, I mean, I could walk…”

“Nonsense, idiot.” Grantaire smiled easily, bashing Enjolras upside the head. “I have a car, remember?”

Enjolras smiled back, and Jehan covered his mouth, presumably to hide the quiet laughter that made his shoulders shake with hardly perceptible tremors. Grantaire thought he heard him whisper, “Smitten.”

They left, leaving behind Bahorel and Feuilly, who were both passed out on the sofa, sleep having reclaimed them in its all-consuming grasp. Grantaire strode in front of Enjolras and opened his car seat, easing a laugh out of Enjolras as he remembered the other time this had happened, almost in a completely different universe, to a completely different man. _Though_ , Enjolras thought, as he settled in the car seat, inhaling the smell of car air-freshener and the faint remnant of stale cigarettes, _not quite so different._ All of him was there, but his mind had not yet deciphered what his heart had meant when it sped up in Grantaire’s presence. He looked up when Grantaire entered, closing the door with a crash and making both of them wince.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Enjolras didn’t answer because he was too busy yawning, something which Grantaire noted. “Someone’s exhausted, eh?”

“Well, it was a long day. And yesterday was quite a jam-packed day, emotion-wise.”

Grantaire grinned. “Almost getting your face implanted in ice must have been quite the experience for you.”

Enjolras scowled but was unable to keep the smile of his face, looking overall very comical and causing Grantaire to burst into peals of laughter, Enjolras feebly trying to stop him by shaking him from side to side. Grantaire, in an effort to control his laughter, looked at Enjolras, only to end up laughing even harder, his own tiredness making it impossible to control this sudden wave of mirth. Enjolras pouted, and then grinned suddenly. Without any warning, he twisted round in his seat, grabbed the front of Grantaire’s shirt and pulled him towards him, kissing him into silence.

They parted with an audible sound, Enjolras smiling serenely. Grantaire’s eyes were still closed, mouth slightly ajar, apparently still stunned by the sudden, utterly unexpected action. Then he opened his eyes halfway, slowly, looking at Enjolras with those half-lidded eyes, and said, “You don’t seem to mind the consequences of losing your dignity by almost defacing the ice.”

Enjolras’s face, which was still close to Grantaire’s inched closer, emboldened by the knowledge that Grantaire was putty in his hands. “Definitely not.”

“No regrets, then?”

Enjolras sensed that this particular sentence went deeper than the jest that Grantaire was trying to keep up. It had roots that went way deeper, down to the darkest core of Grantaire, which housed his insecurity, the darkness which sometimes not even the brightest light could pierce. Enjolras brought a hand to Grantaire’s face and whispered, sincerely, his voice trembling slightly, “I would do it again, even if it meant falling flat on my face in front of the Queen of England.”

Grantaire grinned. “That would be quite the show.”

“Oh, be serious,” Enjolras huffed, smiling anyhow when he saw that Grantaire’s eyes were clearly relieved. His smile widened when Grantaire echoed his answer from their first day in the ice-skating rink:

“I am wild!”

He leaned over a placed a chaste kiss on Enjolras’s lips, and then he turned round to face the steering wheel. Enjolras felt his heart swell inexplicably. He’d hardly ever seen Grantaire in this state of happiness. He couldn’t quite believe that he could be the one that could be so privileged as to view this side of Grantaire, and he certainly couldn’t fathom how it was he who had brought such light to Grantaire’s eyes.

Grantaire started the car, and they set off.

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

Enjolras nodded, stifling another yawn behind his hand. Grantaire looked thoughtfully, his fingers, blackened with graphite on one end, tapping at the wheel. 

“Would you mind stopping at mine? I need to check on my dog. Gavroche, Eponine’s little brother, was meant to check on him, but I’d rather - “

“Sure we can. Seriously, I don’t mind. Also, you have a dog? That’s _adorable_ , what’s his name?”

They spent the rest of the car ride discussing dogs, Grantaire mostly grumbling about shedding season and ‘several nice black shirts becoming utterly ruined by goddamned dog hair”. When they finally arrived, Grantaire remembered Enjolras’s super cool apartment, and thought back on his own apartment, which was slightly less cool. He shrugged it off. After all, it was his own space, a shelter against the forces of nature and the injustice of mankind. He parked the car and got out. Bewilderingly, it had started to rain, and they hurried to get beneath the alcove of his block of apartments, shivering in the sudden cold.

They went inside, and Grantaire cheerily informed Enjolras that the lift was out of order. “You ready to exercise those fine legs of yours?” he continued teasingly, looking back at Enjolras with a smirk. He earned a shove for that last comment, which did absolutely nothing apart from increasing the wattage of his smile. After two flights of stairs, Grantaire always up ahead and yelling encouragement down at Enjolras, who was not enjoying this _one bit_ and was threatening to kill Grantaire between heavy wheezes of breath, they reached his apartment. Grantaire, upon Enjolras’s tardy arrival, pointed out that the varied death threats that Enjolras had just wheezed out weren’t very effectful when taking into consideration his current physical state, dodging Enjolras’s weak punch by unlocking the door and falling inside in one smooth motion. 

He slapped around blindly for the light switch, hearing the distinct clatter of claws on floor as his dog torpedoed out from what was presumably his room and making a beeline towards him. He redoubled his efforts, knowing through experience how awful it was to be ran over by a wildly ecstatic dog in pitch black darkness, and hit the switch, thankful for the sudden light which flooded the room. He opened his arms, both in welcome and in defence, as a ball of fur moving at light speed hurled itself at him, yowling happily as he shed fur all over Grantaire’s clothes. Grantaire sighed dramatically, but nevertheless hugged his dog closely as he walked deeper into the apartment. As promised, Gavroche had dropped by, and left a note, which was hardly decipherable due to Gavroche’s handwriting resembling that of a dying chicken. Grantaire heard the door close, but no footsteps followed. Grantaire knelt down, still not looking backwards, and placed his dog down, turning round and following him with his eyes as the moving ball of (regrettably detachable) fur pattered up to Enjolras. Grantaire focussed fully on Enjolras, and realised that the latter was staring at the several canvasses and assorted mediums that were scattered haphazardly around his living room.

“Ah, sorry for the mess, wasn’t expecting visitors.”

“Is...is that me?”

Grantaire let out a quiet chuckle. “Yes, Enj. It’s you.”

Enjolras, as if in a trance, walked slowly towards the largest one, the very first painting that Grantaire had done of Enjolras, and slowly slid his finger along the line of freckles which had been so meticulously drawn, tracing them in wonder. 

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, awestruck. 

Grantaire could feel himself redden. “Thanks,” he said, unused to being complimented on his work.

Enjolras continued reverently stroking the painting and spoke again, even softer than before, “You never cease to amaze me, dearest.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure he heard correctly. His ears were probably malfunctioning. Hell, his entire body seemed to malfunction when Enjolras was around. It was as if his body snapped out of Earth’s gravitational pull and latched onto Enjolras’s, and Grantaire was always falling, falling towards Enjolras, falling _for_ him, as easily as rain falls from the sky to meet the ground. Enjolras’s eyes darted sideways, catching Grantaire’s eyes, and lowering his eyelids immediately upon realising that Grantaire had heard him. Grantaire walked up to him, wrapping his arms around the slighter man from behind. This was convenient, as it hid his face, and his eyes, on both of which was discernable the high emotion that had suddenly overwhelmed. Enjolras leaned back, holding on to the arms hugging him. With a soft voice, hesitant at first, getting surer and stronger as he went, Enjolras slowly managed to break the remaining walls around Grantaire’s heart, with words of praise, of admiration, of love. 

Grantaire, who wasn’t one to cry easily, felt tears welling in his eyes at the unexpectedness of the words. He knew, by this time, the nature of Enjolras’s emotions towards him, but he’d scarcely allowed himself to think that it went that deep, and that Enjolras had managed to hit on everything that made Grantaire so very damaged, and somehow made an attempt to heal them. It truly hit home how even in a state where Enjolras didn’t recognise the origin of his sudden acute awareness to Grantaire, he had still paid him so much attention. It served to remind Grantaire that his nature - the way his kindness juxtaposed with his seriousness and vigour, how soft words could spill out of his mouth, the same mouth from whence sounded harsh arguments; how he was composed of so much light, and could yet fall down to such levels of darkness to help someone out of it - this nature was the reason why Grantaire had fallen for him. When Enjolras stopped speaking, Grantaire squeezed him tight, telling him brokenly everything that had just passed through his mind, embarrassment quickly morphing into something more solid as Enjolras squeezed his hands with renewed vigour, and when they’d both run out of words, they just stood there. Outside, the rain was pouring with vigour, and night had set in. The dog had fallen asleep on the sofa. The space around them seemed to have been closed off from the rest of the world, and in the half-lit room, with Enjolras’s presence surrounding him, Grantaire finally, finally let go of his self-hatred, and a seed of hope was planted in his heart.

Maybe this time, one person would prove him wrong.

Finally, Enjolras shifted slightly in Grantaire’s arms, turning around, not breaking the embrace. Grantaire looked down at him as Enjolras rose slightly to bring his forehead to rest against Grantaire’s. He hummed contentedly, and Grantaire thought, _What a dork, Jesus Christ._ He placed a kiss on the top of Enjolras’s nose, and murmured, “You can stay over, you’re exhausted and I don’t feel like carrying up to your apartment if you fall asleep on the way there.”

He knew it was a pretty stupid excuse, and Enjolras probably knew it too, but somehow he agreed with him, and allowed himself to be led to the bed. Grantaire pushed him down and ordered him firmly to fall asleep. He went back out, trying to sort the emotions running pell-mell around his brain and finding it almost impossibly hard. _I love him_. That thought repeated itself constantly in his head, a cacophonous jumble in his mind that threatened to spill out of his mouth at any time. He stumbled around, putting some order to his apartment, before undressing and half-changing into his pajamas. He managed to find his pajama trousers, but his shirt was ominously missing. He crept into his room, stopping at the doorway when he realised that Enjolras was apparently asleep. He picked up his mobile, making sure it was on Silent, and took a picture, because it was rare to catch Enjolras looking so young, edges softened and mouth slightly ajar, the literal picture of an angel, with his hair substituting for the halo. He snapped the picture and replaced his mobile on his messy desk, spotting the shirt lying crumpled on the bed next to Enjolras. He tiptoed softly to the bed, leaning carefully over Enjolras to try and retrieve it. Suddenly, he felt a pair of cold hands grab his bare torso, and realised belatedly that Enjolras wasn’t actually asleep.

The hands pulled him down with unexpected force, and Grantaire found himself lying face-down on the bed, Enjolras beside him, the mattress shaking along with him as he laughed. Grantaire briefly thanked himself for insisting to buy a slightly larger bed because he’d have probably fallen off by this time. He rolled onto his side, facing Enjolras, one eyebrow raised. He inquired wryly, “I thought you were exhausted?”

Enjolras looked at him, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Oh, I am,” he assured Grantaire gravely, his eyes twinkling. “But it has come to my attention that I simply couldn’t sleep knowing you’re out there prowling about.”

“That makes me sound like some kind of burglar or something.”

“Well, you burgled my heart.”

Grantaire grabbed the pillow that his head was resting on and smashed it into Enjolras’s face, his muffled laughter resonating from underneath it. “Idiot,” Grantaire muttered when he lay his head back on his pillow. Enjolras reached out and ruffled his hair, his eyes half-shut.

“You’re gonna stay here?” he said, so softly that if Grantaire wasn’t lying so close to him, he wouldn’t have heard him. 

“Only if you feel comfortable. I was gonna offer to sleep outside if that’s so, but--”

Enjolras silenced him by closing the distance between them by curving his arms round Grantaire’s body, drawing him close. “No. Don’t leave.”

“You’re very clingy when you’re tired.”

Enjolras looked up at him, smirking. “What, you don’t like it?”

Grantaire repositioned himself more comfortably in Enjolras’s arms, his arms going round Enjolras’s waist and holding him in place. “Oh, I hate it,” he said mournfully, smiling wickedly at Enjolras. Enjolras chuckled, then leaned closer and kissed him clumsily on the side of his lips. Grantaire turned his face slightly, capturing Enjolras’s lips and kissing him back. 

“Hmm.”

“You’re adorable.”

Enjolras looked smug. “I know.”

And with that, he fell asleep, leaving Grantaire to wonder how the blazes he could manage to fall asleep that fast, when his own heart was dubstepping in his chest and leaving little to no chance of the possibility of sleep for at least another hour or so. 

***

Their lives from after the ice-rink happenings remained pretty similar. It had taken a while for them to get used to each other, testing the waters of who they now were, and what each meant to the other, but after all, they had developed quite a strong friendship in the course of those few months, fuelled by their ever-present arguments which were always inevitably followed by both of them stating that the other party was right, albeit grudgingly. The only differences that were certainly to both their liking was that occasionally, a kiss would handily stop an argument from going overboard, and although Enjolras made it very clear that if anyone disturbs him during his work, he would end them, he was quite partial to kisses pressed at the top of his head and steaming cups of coffee appearing at frequent intervals next to his laptop. . 

It was one of these evenings, were long stretches of silence were punctuated by Enjolras getting up from his chair and pacing up and down the length of Grantaire’s living room, dodging canvases and the dog with an expert air, and Grantaire was stretched out on his sofa, his hands marked with faded splashes of paint from earlier, watching Enjolras go about with a fond smile on his face. He always loved the way Enjolras would get so absorbed in his work, his eyebrows constantly furrowed and his mouth pursed in concentration. He was waiting for the moment when Enjolras would just give up for the night and join him, knowing the moment was imminent from the way his breaks were getting more frequent.

Finally, Enjolras slammed his fist on the tabletop in frustration, scaring both Grantaire and his dog out of their wits. He glanced sheepishly at Grantaire, who was clutching his chest in mock fright, and muttered, “Sorry. But I really, _really_ can’t do this any more.”

He got up and disappeared into the kitchen, emerging with a glass of wine, which he set daintily on the table while he cleared his workspace. Grantaire watched him, his eyes following his movements, with their unintentional gracefulness, and sniggered when Enjolras, with all his apparent grace, almost toppled over the chair. Enjolras glared at him with no real menace, picking his glass gingerly and sinking into the saggy old armchair angled towards the sofa, swirling the contents of the glass thoughtfully as he leaned back and shut his eyes.

“You look like some aged wine connoisseur about to drop heavy judgement on my poor, innocent wine.”

Enjolras eyes cracked open minutely, sending another glare in his direction, which quickly dissolved in laughter. Grantaire grinned and shut his eyes, sighing contentedly. The whole situation felt slightly surreal, but he knew it was real. He felt grounded, unlike the times when he’d completely lost himself over some guy or girl, the tides of infatuation sweeping him off his feet. What he shared here was something much, much realer. 

He opened his eyes again, glancing at Enjolras, who was looking at him from over the rim of the wine glass, his hair falling over his face and casting a shadow over his face. Grantaire shifted slightly from where he was lying on the sofa, and looked questioningly at his boyfriend. “Something on your mind?”

“I was just thinking back on...well, us.”

Grantaire leaned his head back on the sofa arm and closed his eyes, smiling. He heard the soft clink of glass as the wine glass was set down on the coffee table, and felt the sofa beneath him dip down as Enjolras lay down next to him. Grantaire opened his eyes slightly, twisting his body to the side to make more space for Enjolras. The latter aligned his body to Grantaire’s, slipping one leg between Grantaire’s legs and wrapping his arms round his torso. Grantaire’s arms secured Enjolras’s body from falling over the edge, his hands unconsciously playing with strands of blonde hair which had fallen in their reach.

Grantaire broke the silence that had fallen by continuing on Enjolras’s earlier statement. “Remember that dance? I swear it was the best fun I’d had ever had up to that point.”

He felt rather than heard Enjolras’s reminiscent laughter. “I was so emotionally confused that day. You did everything on purpose, didn’t you?”

Grantaire grinned. “I couldn’t help it, and the few drinks I’d consumed certainly didn’t do anything to restrain me. If anything, they encouraged me on. You were too beautiful for my brain to keep its restraints held firmly by the leash.”

Enjolras buried his face in Grantaire’s shoulders as Grantaire continued, smiling wickedly, “Your beauty still leaves me breathless sometimes.”

A muffled “Oh, stop it you,” emerged from Enjolras, whose ears had turned, as Grantaire had predicted, maroon. Grantaire chuckled, squeezing Enjolras to himself. “I mean it,” he said, his voice soft and sincere. The sudden seriousness in it made Enjolras look up, meeting Grantaire’s eyes as the latter brought a hand to Enjolras’s face and ran a thumb along one cheekbone. “Sometimes,” he continued, his voice lowering steadily, “I still can hardly believe that I can hold you like this, and do this,” he paused, leaning down and kissing him on the forehead, feeling Enjolras’s lashes brush his face when he closed his eyes, “and this…”, placing a kiss on his nose, “...or this.” He brought his other hand to Enjolras’s face, one on each side, and brought his face closer to Enjolras, a mere hair's breadth away. Enjolras’s eyes opened then, looking into Grantaire’s earnestly. His breath ghosted over Grantaire’s lips as he whispered, “I love you.”

Grantaire grinned. “I know.” Then the miniscule space between them disappeared as he proceeded to kiss him breathless.

When they parted, the first things Enjolras said when he caught his breath was, “I can’t believe that you just quoted _Star Wars_ at me.”

Grantaire smiled lazily. “Too good an opportunity to miss, dearest.”

Enjolras flicked him on the nose. “Nerd,” he muttered darkly as he snuggled closer to Grantaire. 

“You don’t seem to mind it that much.”

“Love makes fools of people.”

Grantaire laughed. He felt dizzy whenever Enjolras said that word. ‘Love’. Love was a concept that Grantaire had only fully understood when the same intense emotion had ravaged his heart and set his mind on a one way road that always led straight to Enjolras. Love was when Enjolras looked at him and smiled, no words needed to express the emotion that poured forth from his eyes. Love was when a single hand placed on a shoulder could evoke an ocean of empathy. Love was when, in the darkest of times, a single kiss on the forehead could bring light shining forth again. It was the simple things that reminded Grantaire of his devotion for Enjolras, the simple things that he had not dared hope he would ever get to experience.

Enjolras, with his usual uncanny ability of somehow guessing Grantaire’s thoughts, angled his head slightly and placed a kiss at the edge of Grantaire’s jaw, giggling when Grantaire’s eyes shot open at the touch. He placed another kiss, slightly lower, on his neck, keeping up the pace as Grantaire slowly became mush under his ministrations. Enjolras could feel a peculiar heat rushing through him, possessing him almost, as he somehow ended up on top of Grantaire, straddling his waist, Grantaire’s fingers pressing into his sides hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t mind, he didn’t care. Grantaire was having trouble breathing, and an even tougher time trying to hide his obvious arousal. Enjolras, as usual, was hyperaware of everything that Grantaire didn’t want him to know, so, of course, he sat up, still straddling his hips, sitting down heavily on--

Grantaire bit back an unholy noise, his teeth digging into his lips hard enough to draw blood. “Christ, Enjolras,” he muttered, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper as he tried to control himself.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Enjolras said innocently, shifting slightly on the spot, feeling Grantaire’s body jolt as his back arched upwards, a muffled moan escaping from between his lips. Enjolras felt his eyes shut at the sound, knowing that he was far beyond the ability to keep himself in check now, his own heart stuttering uncontrollably in his chest. Enjolras reached blindly, trailing shaking fingers down Grantaire’s chest, feeling Grantaire move beneath his hands, lifting himself into a sitting position, his hands getting lost in Enjolras’s hair as he brought his lips to Enjolras’s, kissing him with wild abandon, Enjolras’s surprised exhalation of breath quickly replaced by a whimper as the full force of the kiss hit him. One of his hands strayed up Grantaire’s back, tugging at the shirt hem and slipping beneath, fingers gliding over hot skin, tentative at first, and then more confident when he felt Grantaire gasp against his lips. Grantaire increased the intensity of the kiss at the touch, and then there was tongue, and then it was all a bit of a blur, from which Grantaire vaguely remembered lifting Enjolras bodily of the sofa, Enjolras’s clear laughter sounding like music in the otherwise quiet apartment, and somehow, with a wordless agreement, they had ended up in Grantaire’s bedroom.

Grantaire’s lucidity returned somewhere at this point, and his focus narrowed down to Enjolras, who was lying beneath him, the pupils in his startling blue eyes blown wide, his parted lips red and swollen, strands of hair sticking to his face. He sat down in an identical manner to Enjolras only a few minutes before, feeling a rush of adrenaline as Enjolras reacted, his ability to restrain any noise from coming out even weaker than Grantaire’s. Grantaire’s fingers scrabbled at the hem of his own shirt, catching Enjolras’s eyes to see if this was all right. Enjolras answered by rising up slightly from the mattress and pulling him closer, his hands aiding Grantaire in shedding off his shirt. Enjolras’s shirt soon joined Grantaire’s on the floor, and Grantaire at this point paused. His fingers traced the freckles that converged around Enjolras’s delicate collarbones, unable to resist placing a kiss at the dip between the two elegant curves of bone, hearing Enjolras’s breath rush out of his mouth in a breathy sigh. 

“You really are beautiful,” Grantaire said, never tiring of seeing the high blush that always coloured Enjolras’s cheeks at the word. His hands moved as if by their own volition lower, brushing maddeningly at Enjolras’s hips, holding on to them as they bucked up beneath his touch. He could feel Enjolras’s hands clinging to him, and the only response to Grantaire’s husky question of “Can I?” was a slight nod. Grantaire’s usually deft fingers shook as they undid Enjolras’s trouser button, the high emotion and intensity of desire making it hard for them to function properly. Enjolras huffed out a laugh, his fingers gliding down and guiding Grantaire’s hands, bringing his legs up and pulling of his trousers himself. He was almost fully exposed now, and Grantaire had to take a moment to comprehend that this was really happening. Enjolras, who was breathing just as heavily as Grantaire, reached out and wrapped his arms round Grantaire’s neck, pulling him towards him, kissing his neck, his teeth nipping at the skin. Grantaire somehow managed to shimmy out of his own trousers, and the sudden exposure of flesh, and the feeling of Enjolras against him suddenly heightening to an extreme, took away what little breath he had had left. 

Enjolras arched beneath him, his skin made slick with sweat. His breathing was coming out in harsh and ragged gasps, and his voice when he moaned was low and made husky with lust, catching in his throat as his breaths tried to catch up with his brain, which had short-circuited. Grantaire detached himself from Enjolras’s clasp, brought Enjolras’s legs up, and began kissing his way upwards, starting from his current position at Enjolras’s legs, trailing kisses up Enjolras's thighs, hands moving across the creamy skin, fingers grazing the skin and drawing out a whimper from behind Enjolras’s clenched teeth, lips chasing the stray freckles peppering the skin there. Enjolras whispered his name, stretching out the last vowel, the 'r' rolling in his throat, his breath rushing out as Grantaire’s lips left a trail of fire at his hips. Grantaire laid down a line of kisses up Enjolras's torso, which was heaving with the hard breaths he was taking. Grantaire could feel the pulse throbbing in his neck, his own breathing erratic as his heart, sweat trickling down his back. Enjolras’s hands fluttered down the length of his spine, sending sparks of liquid fire down his nerves. He flattened his body against Enjolras’s, pressing every part of their bodies against each other, the thin layer of fabric which was their underwear the only thing separating them. Enjolras couldn’t hold in his voice this time, his hands scrabbling for purchase as they dropped to the bed sheets. 

His hands were suddenly back in Grantaire's hair, gripping it tight enough for Grantaire to feel actual pain, which only fuelled his urgency to get more, more of Enjolras. He reached his neck, his kisses going from soft and gentle to rougher ones, his teeth nipping at the taut skin. He could feel Enjolras's pulse rabbiting as he bared his neck, and Grantaire trailed his hands from where they'd been on Enjolras's hips up his back, bumping over the knobs of his spine. Enjolras threw his head back, his hair in complete disarray, his eyes closed and his mouth parted. He muttered incoherently as Grantaire's lips pressed maddening kisses at the edges of his lips. Enjolras released one hand from Grantaire's hair and brought it down to Grantaire's neck, and used it to pull Grantaire's face down, his lips meeting Grantaire's, apparently not being able to take any more teasing. Grantaire felt Enjolras's legs curl round his body, fitting their bodies together, holding him close. Somehow, the last barrier was dissolved, and they both gasped as each part of their bodies were pressed flush against each other, the sound of their breathing punctuating the silence of the room. Enjolras spoke again, with some difficulty, his voice completely wrecked and clouded with desire. “'Taire, please...”

Grantaire didn't need much more prompting. Positioning Enjolras's hips, he complied, and for the next few minutes none of them spoke, at least not coherently, if one would take into consideration Enjolras's repetition of Grantaire's name which grew louder in pitch until he couldn't speak anymore, because Grantaire's lips had fastened on to his. The nails that scored uneven lines in his back spoke loudly enough as it was. When Grantaire rolled off Enjolras after a while, both of them breathing hard, Enjolras's eyes still closed, he pressed a kiss to Enjolras's neck, and whispered, “What fine marble!”, his breath tickling Enjolras's neck as he pressed another kiss, behind his ear. Enjolras's shoulder's shook with tired laughter, even as Grantaire trailed small kisses down his collar bones, until finally Enjolras's eyes opened. They were no longer clouded with lust, the blue bright and clear, but they still took Grantaire's breath away, because welling in them he could see the love that he was sure was reflected in his own.

He spoke first, his voice cracking from emotion, “God I love you so much.”

Enjolras beamed, his hand resting on Grantaire's face as they faced each other, lying sideways on the bed. Grantaire's hand snaked over Enjolras's hips, pulling him closer and placing a kiss on his nose. Enjolras buried his face in Grantaire's shoulder, and whispered sleepily back, “I know.”

And after some time, they slept like that, curled up against each other, Enjolras's hair spread across the pillow like an uneven halo, entwined with Grantaire's tangled wild curls.

When Grantaire woke up the morning after, he found Enjolras already awake, sitting with his legs dangling from the bed, facing away from Grantaire towards the window. The feeble rays of sun which were shining into the room illuminated the stray hairs that sprang out in an erratic halo around Enjolras’s head, and, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Grantaire remembered how Enjolras occasionally seemed to transcend humanity and become a divinity. Even in such a simple context, he blew him away. 

He pulled the covers away from him, pulling himself up in a sitting position, making the bed creak under him. Enjolras turned round, his eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep, and smiled dazzlingly at him. Grantaire beamed back, shifting closer to Enjolras and wrapping his arms around his chest from behind. He kissed the closest cheek, earning a contented hum as an answer. They stayed like that for a long while, Grantaire occasionally leaving kisses in between Enjolras’s shoulder blades, both of them wrapped up in each other, the unspoken words enough to convey each other’s emotions.

Eventually, Enjolras shifted reluctantly out of Grantaire’s hold, and murmured slowly, “I should go home. I need to finish up for today’s meeting.”

Grantaire, without giving it much thought and surprising even himself, suggested offhandedly, “You could always, you know, move in. You wouldn’t have to wake up so early. I-I guess, you know-”

Grantaire’s suddenly faltering speech was cut off by Enjolras, who twisted suddenly in his arms to face him and wrapping his arms around him.

“Seriously?”

“Oh, um, yes, duh.”

Enjolras pulled away from the embrace, suddenly bashful. “Although, I don’t wanna impose, or be of any hassle, or…”

Grantaire interrupted with a chuckle, fingers reaching out to move a few strands of blonde hair which had fallen over Enjolras’s face. “You? Impose? Nah. The house just feels so goddamn empty when you leave, you know?”

Enjolras nodded mutely, smiling widely. “Yeah. Here feels much more home to me than my own house. I think it’s because of your presence.”

Grantaire felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “Where you always this cheesy?”

“Only on special occasions.”

“Cocky, too.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras said, strengthening the sentiment by immobilising Grantaire’s lips with his own.

Needless to say, both of them were slightly late that day.

Once this was decided, Grantaire’s life took another turn for the abnormal. A new bed had to be catered for, because, as Enjolras had gently insinuated, his current bed usually meant that one of them would fall out of bed in the course of the night. This meant that his room needed a complete renovation, which was surprisingly fun, not counting the frequent amount of times Grantaire got physically assaulted by Enjolras for splashing paint in his hair, or the distractions that Enjolras’s lips presented. Once this was done, and Enjolras’s huge bed, the only thing he kept from his old apartment (which Grantaire had been astonished to find was completely his own, and not rented) was fit into the room, along with the rest of Grantaire’s comparably battered furniture, it truly sank in that Enjolras was now a permanent resident in this house. Piles of his clothes could now be found amongst Grantaire’s, and two cups of coffee would be standing on the breakfast table when Grantaire woke up in the mornings. Grantaire discovered Enjolras’s wonderfully loud laughter, his irrational fear of toasters, and relived his horrible, off-key singing everyday when Enjolras showered. He discovered that his absent-mindedness and distractedness (Patria strikes again) led to burnt tongues from downing cups of too-hut coffee, and his excessive skills did not include cooking. Grantaire still remembers with fond memories the impressive black smoke of burning food that had filled his small kitchen when Enjolras had attempted to cook, consoling him by saying that his kitchen needed a new colour, and blackish-grey with subtle hints of the original wood was the perfect one to set the mood. This didn’t prove to be very consoling, but at least Grantaire could say that he’d tried.

In all the months that he’d known Enjolras, Grantaire had hardly ever received short texts, most of which were impressive essay-length ideas which Enjolras had for their next meetings (to which Grantaire would usually answer with a single emoticon or a very short sentence, knowing it would infuriate Enjolras and being proven right by the arrival of yet another huge text). However, occasionally, the anomaly of a short text would grace Grantaire’s inbox. 

_“I miss you.”_  
_“How are you? Day’s going good?”_  
_“I saw this and thought of you!”_

_“I love you.”_

Grantaire’s list, by this point, was overflowing.

So when Enjolras’s birthday came along, a brilliant idea struck him. He bought a birthday card, printed the list, folded it carefully, and stuck it over the conventional birthday message. On the remaining blank side, he wrote,

_“Dear blonde tuft of caffeine and actual Human Heater,_  
_This project had started out as proof that you are, in fact, human. You used to frighten me by how god-like you’d showed yourself to be to me, and frankly, I wanted to know your other side too. You intrigued me (also turned me on a bit, I think you may have guessed that)._  
_This list is proof that not only have I found out your human side, but I’ve also come to the grudging conclusion that all these imperfections make your human self more perfect than your Apollo side._  
_Congratulations on gracing the Earth with your presence for another year._  
_I love you, beautiful._

_R.”_

He presented this, along with a sketchbook which included all of their friends (but mostly Enjolras, because, let’s face it, Grantaire had been smitten for longer than he cared to admit), on the day of his birthday, in the midst of all their friends, who all witnessed Enjolras’s tears as he laugh-cried his way through the list. Later that night, when they were alone, curled up together in bed, Enjolras had whispered, “You’re the only piece of perfect I’ve found in my life.” When Grantaire began to protest, Enjolras stopped him by steam-rollering over his protestations. “All my life, I was trained to aim for the highest, to _be_ the highest, to be the best. And you taught me that the other side of me was just as worthy as the ‘god-like’ side of me. You taught me how to embrace myself. And for that, and for many other reasons, I love you.”

Grantaire, who couldn’t take compliments, batted him on the shoulder. “You’re taking poetry lessons from Jehan, aren’t you?”

Enjolras, who was very aware that Grantaire didn’t know how to react to compliments, didn’t push the matter, because he knew this was Grantaire’s way of saying ‘Thank you’, and instead smiled and kissed him gently on the forehead. Later, when Enjolras thought that Grantaire had fallen asleep, he heard him mutter, “I love you too, asshole,” and he couldn’t help grinning widely, even though he knew that Grantaire couldn’t possibly see him in the dark.

And one day, during one of Enjolras’s most important meeting, exactly one year from the ice-skating rink incident, Enjolras, out on centre-stage, alight with his usual inner splendour, reached out a hand for Grantaire as the people who had attended the meeting all burst into frenzied clapping, and Grantaire, looking straight into Enjolras’s eyes with a mixture of pride and love, took the proffered hand, and stepped out into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened when I was meant to be studying for finals, and I was super down, so I forced myself to write the most teeth-rotting fluff I could conjure up. I do hope y'all liked it, and I'd like to thank the Les Mis community on tumblr for giving me loads of ideas.
> 
> Sorry if it was slightly ooc, but tbh, any happy fic concerning e/r is ooc because let's face it, they're pretty fucking tragic.
> 
> If you wanna talk, i'm on tumblr: http://enjolraaaaaaaaaarse.tumblr.com (good luck with the a's)
> 
> (also, feel free to point out any mistakes, I was rereading this for like the seventh time and fell asleep do I'm just posting it)


End file.
